


Banking, The American Art

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Lives, Arthur Whump, Bank Robbery, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Fix-It of Sorts, Gunshot Wounds, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea lives, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Lenny lives, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Chapter 5: Guarma (Red Dead Redemption 2), Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Spoilers, but im here to fix that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-03-09 16:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: *SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 4 ONWARDS*From the inside, everything seemed to be going perfectly according to plan. The employees and civilians cooped up in a corner with Lenny and Charles pointing their firearms of choice at them, Bill and Javier securing a bag of stolen jewelry and accessories from them, the only thing that betrays the image is John...How to fix the Saint Denis bank job 101, because fuck Guarma, Hosea and Lenny deserve to live.





	1. Want of money and the distress of a thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief's. - William Blake

Everything seemed so well, like they finally had managed to work something right this godforsaken year. But one shout, just one distressed call out had tore down any glint of hope that had dared peak its head under the mountain of anxiety stowing in Arthur's heart.  
  
"Looks like the law!" John had warned and Arthur adjusted the bags on his shoulder. Of course it's the law, he knew it was going too smoothly, he'd even opened the safes before the worker fessed up and spewed them to Bill.  
  
"Shit," Arthur muttered to himself, sighing as Dutch exits the vault in front of him, urging Arthur to follow with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.  
  
From the inside, everything seemed to be going perfectly according to plan. The employees and civilians cooped up in a corner with Lenny and Charles pointing their firearms of choice at them, Bill and Javier securing a bag of stolen jewelry and accessories from them, the only thing that betrays the image is John, peaking from a window, face hidden under his bandana; which prompted Arthur to pull up his as he got closer, shooing him away and ducking out of view of the window. If law is out there, then they would shoot on sight, especially after the Angelo Bronte mess and how they've rallied up the entire city against them.  
  
Micah scurries off towards a window, each of Bill and Javier ducking as a booming voice, one that Arthur grew to hate, calls out for Dutch, "It's over!"

Milton. Because it's always him, always on their ass to capture them. Arthur peaks, swearing loudly as he spots Hosea, held by the collar of his shirt.

Dutch swears beside him and Arthur straightens a bit more, peaking further out the window to scan the crowd for anyone holding Abigail but he spots none. Time moves slower from that point on, Milton awaits their answer or their exit, Dutch looks lost in thought with clear panic in his eyes as he and Arthur stare at each other. They never accounted for this, "Someone must have squealed!" Arthur hisses and Dutch nods, pulling down his bandana and taking in a breath, Arthur looks out the window once again. Hosea catches his eye and the man looks disturbingly scared, hands raised and eyes wide. 

"Mister Milton! Let my friend go!" Dutch shouts and Arthur watches as Milton looks down at Hosea, pressing his gun against his head and Arthur shakes his head at Dutch. They can't negotiate their way out now, Dutch stares at Arthur as Milton replies.

"Your friend? Why would I do that?" He shouts back and Arthur look back at Hosea, "It's over, Dutch Van Der Linde! You've lost your chance in bargaining, no more deals," He says and Arthur watches as Milton pulls back the hammer of his pistol, a gesture Dutch can't see, one that means they're mere seconds away from a bullet lodging itself in Hosea's head. 

"Mister Milton-" Dutch starts but Arthur reaches a hand and grabs his arm, glaring at him, Dutch pauses and Arthur speaks instead.

"Don't shoot!" Arthur pleads and Dutch looks at him in bewilderment, John says something under his breath as Arthur stands fully, arms raised in front of the window. From what he sees, the entire street and the balcony of the opposite building are filled with Pinkertons and Saint Denis police, "We'll come out," he says and Milton smirks as Arthur back away from the window, towards where Lenny and John are manning the doors.

"Have you lost your mind, Morgan?" John hisses and Arthur doesn't reply, instead turning to the hostages and scanning them.

This has a slim chance of working, a slim chance at getting out of here with Hosea alive as well as the rest of them, but it's better than no chance at all. Milton will not listen to Dutch, no matter how many threats he spews, Milton needs a threat that will put things into perspective, that will label them as desperate as well as dangerous. Arthur grabs the first woman he sees, grits his teeth as she cries out in fear and pushes her towards the closed doors, he shakes his head in dismay when Lenny stares at him in shock,he turns back to Bill and Javier and motioning for them to grab a person each. 

John looks at him with a mix of anger and trust, they both know the truth, Arthur won't shoot her, but that doesn't mean he won't make her feel like he will.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Dutch asks as he abandons the window, instead looking at the woman in Arthur's hand and Arthur rolls his shoulder, looks back at him with the most steely expression he can muster and says,

"I'm getting Hosea back," 

Dutch fixes him a look, scrutinizing him, before nodding, finally understanding as he returns to his position beside the window and Arthur checks to see if Bill and Javier have already picked their victims. "Alright, nobody fire," Arthur warns as John pushes the door open, hastily hiding behind the wall as Arthur pushes the woman in front of him.

Outside, the breath stills in Arthur's chest, the sheer amount of guns pointing at him making him nervous, but he goes with his impromptu plan anyway, for Hosea's sake.

"Let my friend go, Milton," Arthur says, ducking his head behind the woman's when a police officer waves his rifle towards him, "We've got women and innocent men inside, you don't want their blood on your hands, Milton," Arthur scans the crowd again, taking a small step forward, "and even if, you shoot me and my friend here, the rest of us will go, but you'll have blood on your hands," 

"Mister Morgan," Milton sighs, and Arthur flicks his gaze back to him. Arthur pulls back the hammer of his pistol, pressing it harder against the woman's head.

She sobs, her knees give out and for a terrifying moment, she's halfway to the group and Arthur can feel his face heat in fear. He's exposed, they can shoot him, any minute now, he'll die and so will Hosea. Any second... 

He pulls himself together quickly, pulling her up, harsher than he wanted and she squeaks as Arthur pulls her to his chest, solidifying her on her feet. Milton watches the exchange, his pistol leaving Hosea's head for a moment before returning, and Arthur knows, had he been a second too slow, she would have ended with a bullet in his heart. 

He and Milton stare at each other, Arthur can see the disappointment in Milton's eyes, the way his pistol starts to drop ever so slightly, he had made up his mind, and Arthur silently thanks his lucky stars that the fear bubbling in his chest and the slight tremor of his hand does not show, or not enough for the others to notice. Milton pauses, looking back at Agent Ross before turning back to Arthur and sighs. 

Arthur almost smiles, quietly sighs, but holds back any hope, they're not safe, they'll never be safe again.

If he can get Hosea and himself back inside without any bullet wounds, he'll count it as a win, even if they abandon the money.

"You can't escape, I hope you know," Milton drawls as he drops his gun from Hosea's head, "All you're doing is stalling,"

"Ain't no shame in stalling death, Agent," Arthur replies gruffly, "Now, give me back my friend," he repeats and Milton pushes Hosea away, the older man stumbles, staring at Arthur unsurly but Arthur jerks his head, stepping backward slowly. Hosea scurries through the doors, and only after that does Arthur start to make his retreat. He can let the woman go, he doesn't know if she might have picked on anything important, she seems unhinged by the situation enough that she wouldn't be important to Milton. Or he can keep her, throw her with the rest of the hostages, that would be better and safer all around. 

Arthur looks behind him for a moment, dragging the woman back by her arm as she continues to silently sob and weakly tries to pull away. Once he's far enough, he pauses for a moment. Didn't she go through enough trauma? She seems distraught enough, do they really need to keep her around? He glances behind him for a quick moment, catching sight of Bill holding his revolver against a man's temple, he turns towards Milton and takes a step back, holding the woman at arms-length before pushing her away and sliding beside John, Lenny closing the doors behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I've had this idea for a while now, and I wanted to post it before I lose the inspiration for it!!


	2. Patience and Other Virtues

As soon as Arthur's back hits the wall, the sound of the Bank doors clicking shut, Hosea grabs him by the collar. 

"You absolute idiot!" he hisses, but hugs him, and Arthur hugs back automatically. It registers a bit slow that they just escaped a near-death situation, on both parties. Arthur's heart is hammering, but it slows as Hosea parts with him, slapping him up the head, "You could have been shot, you utter, utter  _absolute_ dimwit" but he smiles as he speaks, eyes a little bit watery but so are Arthur's. They collect themselves fairly quickly, the situation at hand still radiating imminent danger. They're still trapped, but at least they're whole.

"What happened?" Arthur asks as he stretches his neck and dusts his jacket idly. It's expensive after all.

Hosea shakes his head, now standing close to Dutch, who looks much _much_ steadier than when Arthur had exited. John still bounces from one heel to the other, and Arthur could practically read his anxiety, but he can't place a sole source of it. Hosea clears is throat, fixing his collar before his eyes dart around the bank.

"They were expecting us," He explains, "Things were off since the beginning, there were more police patrols than usual, the people were cleared off the streets," he sighs, pressing his thumb between his eyebrows, "Once the detonator was on, Abigail and I set off to the meeting point, but they were waiting, as I said, and they grabbed me and her..." He glances up at John, who has paled considerably. No matter how much shit he spews, John can't act like he doesn't love Abigail like he doesn't care for her. If it weren't for the way he'd always put up with the arguments, it'd be for the subtle ways he always checks up on her. Sure, he still lacks the same deep affection for Jack, but he still makes sure the kid had eaten at the end of the day. 

"Do they have her?" John asks, voice unnaturally soft, a moment away from breaking. Hosea shakes his head, and John sags a little in relief, "Where is she?"

"Not the slightest clue, John," Hosea replies grimly, "Once the explosion went off, the men holding her had scattered, she managed to blend in with the general public. Neither Ross or Milton have her, that I can assure," John nods, looking more at ease, but a glance out the closest window makes his face harden again, the usual frown, the one Arthur can't remember him without, making a reappearance. 

"What's our next move?" John asks and automatically all eyes turn to Dutch, who's got a faraway look in his eyes, most probably thinking two steps ahead of them. From what Arthur had seen, the blueprints had two exits, one that has Pinkertons on the other side and another that has tons worth of rubble. Both are dead ends, one more literal than the other.

"We need to move," Charles says lowly, face indifferent but from the few past months, Arthur can recognize the faint flare of worry behind his eyes, the way his gaze seems magnetized to the window where every few seconds he can't help but look. 

"Both exits are blocked," John points out. They all studied the blueprints, Hosea and Dutch had berated even Bill to come and memorize it, memorize where workers are stationed, where guards stakeout. Even if it had been useless in the security part, they all know every stone and when it was placed.

They share a quiet mummer of disappointment, Lenny about how they should've had more safety precautions, Bill about being stuck in such a place. Arthur trekks his eyes on each and every one of them, watching as Charles got more and more wound up, how John keeps trying to flex his shoulder so he wouldn't do something irrational amidst the mess. Dutch and Hosea share a glance, a subtle shift closer together, Dutch placing a hand on his elbow, Hosea muttering about stones and police. And finally, Arthur gets to witness Javier's face slowly light up like a metaphorical lantern.

"The window!" he exclaims, hands flying to the air as a small victorious smile comes to his face, "The manager's office has a window, we can sneak out of it and escape through the alleyways!" he explains and a ripple of hope radiates through the crowd. Lenny claps Javier's shoulder, with an  _oh right!_ And Dutch nods along with the others.

"What about them?" Micah asks, waving his gun at the general direction of the hostages, "If we leave they could send them after us,"

"I'll stay behind, once all of you are out, I'll follow," Arthur offers and Hosea shakes his head, ready to object but Arthur doesn't give him a chance, "I'll be fine, any of them move for any reason, I'll shoot 'em," he half-heartedly warns, eyes snapping to the huddled men and women, some quietly weeping, some holding each other.

"Alright," Dutch agrees, "Okay, everybody, come on," he jerks his head and Javier leads the others towards the managers office "quietly," he adds and John raises a hand in acknowledgment, Dutch urges Hosea to go on, and before Dutch follows him, he turns to Arthur, "Thank you, son," he says quietly, "Be safe," he follows up, a hand touching Arthur's shoulder before he goes behind the rest of his men.

Arthur grabs his discarded gold filled saddlebag, slinging it over his shoulder and turning to the hostages, "Alright, everyone, on their stomachs, hands over your heads," he directs, moving around the forming circle as everyone complies and those who don't, get knocked out clean with the butt of his pistol.

No time for sympathy, this is the life of half the gang at stake. Once an appropriate amount of time passes, Arthur glances out the window. Milton and Ross are nowhere in sight, but the rest of the force are still out there, ready to fire. He sighs, adjusting the bag over his shoulder and taking a few steps backwards. 

"Alright, everybody, any of you speak, you're done for," he threatens as he heads to where the gang had left, "Five minutes, then you're free," he promises, turning on his heel and sprinting down the hall, into the now opened managers office where the single window stands, opened fully and the smell of horse manure and factory smoke wafts in. He throws the saddlebag first, slings his legs and slides the rest of the way out, landing with a squelch on the muddied cobblestone.

Idly, he thinks of his horse, thinks of all their horses and if they'll get a chance to retrieve them. He hadn't had Luna for long, but he loves that horse, knows Dutch values The Count, Silver Dollar has been Hosea's trusted steed for a little over a decade now. He grabs the saddle bag, slinging it again and running behind the footprints stomped into the mud. 

The first gunshot threatens to make him freeze, and he quickly flattens himself against the wall, peaking into a corner where a Pinkerton, decided as such because of his hat, held a rifle pointing down the alleyway. Arthur sneaks towards him, taking the chance that since he's distracted, he can take him down silently. But the damage is already done, and the firestorm starts. He can hear John and Bill trading insults about which one got spotted, Dutch shutting them up and urging them to  _shoot you damn idiots._

The sound of thundering hooves and footsteps follow him as he shoots the man who'd doomed them all, taking off from where he last heard the gang.

He catches up relatively fast, following the trail of downed or dying police, finding the gang shooting out towards the street where men shoot at them on top of horses. The gang is taking cover behind some measly crates and the divots of old buildings torn down by the weather and untreated by the city. Arthur shoots two lawmen, turning on his heel when he hears some approaching from behind and shouting out a warning before three horses squeeze into the muggy alleyway.

 Arthur ducks as a hail of bullets fly towards him, many police officers whistling to each other and so the atmosphere was filled with a variety of noises. Charles and John skid behind him, each pushing a crate for cover and Charles urges Arthur to hide with them.

With no need to be told twice, Arthur slides through the mud and leans against the crate that is slowly getting chipped away by the oncoming bullets. Offhandedly, Arthur wishes he had brought his firebottles with him, his satchel had been emptied to allow for room for the money and whoever valuables wouldn't fit in the saddle bags and so he only has an assortment of bullets and a single bottle of bitters, along with the stacks of money and a single gold bar that didn't find a place with him or Dutch.

He reloads, and as soon as the final bullet is lodged, he turns and shoots at the filling alleyway, men falling and getting replaced as quickly as rain. "There's too many!" Javier shouts, men falling like flies at their end too and the street looks more like a mass grave than what it once had been, stores littered with bullets. 

Arthur tries to scan the area for a possibly escape route when he hears an echoing shout of _Dutch!_ And when he turns, he finds Hosea dragging Dutch by the collar into cover as the younger man checks his leg, clasping a hand over a graze that had pushed him off his feet. 

"Don't stop shooting!" Dutch barks when the men collectively watched him for any other injuries, gunfire pausing in worry. Lenny is first to snap back in action, turning in a circle and looking up wards. Arthur follows his gaze, John and Charles firing beside him, and he spots it at the same moment as Lenny. 

"There's a ladder!" Lenny shouts, jumping up and grabbing the end of it, it rolls open with a metallic _clunk_ as Lenny falls to the ground and picks himself up again quickly. 

They have no room for arguments, not that they would have, the have no choice other than to follow Lenny as he climbs the ladder, Bill at his heels and Micah following. Arthur takes off the follow, Charles at his side. They wait until Hosea and Dutch had climbed to follow, Charles first as Arthur cover fires for them.

Once his hands touches the metal, as if on command, Arthur hears John call out for him and he turns to see two officers grabbing him by the arms, pulling him back, his revolver glistening in the mud. Without much thought, Arthur shoots them down, shouting "Come on, Marston!" and waiting as John collects his gun and saddlebag then runs toward him. Arthur let's him climb first, and soon, they are all on the rooftops.

Lenny is jumping for the next one building, and Arthur holds his breath as he lands, Dutch shooting two men that had climbed from the other side. They follow Lenny down the rooftops, needing to lose whatever crowd they can.

And so from rooftop to rooftop, they jump and they try to escape. Hosea and Dutch trail behind Lenny, everyone behind them matching their pace, most keeping Hosea and Dutch at an arms distance in case they tumble. Arthur hangs back, pistol clutched in his fist, firing whenever a Pinkerton appears in his vision.

John shouts, and they're sending information between each other like a game of telephone, whether about an upcoming jump, the direction they could take, where an enemy is spotted. It's a blur at best, Arthur doesn't even know where they'll end up, if they were to reach a dead end and they have to jump to the ground, he personally can take it, but Hosea is already suffering from his aging bones, Dutch still has his nicked ankle.

"Left!" Lenny shouts, pausing and letting the rest pass him as he downs the closest police officer. Arthur turns, spotting the blue coated man and shooting, not really getting a chance to aim before Bill calls that there's a big jump and the group momentarily pauses as Dutch jumps first.

It's a scrape, but he manages and soon after, Bill, Javier and Micah follow. Arthur urges the rest to go, looking behind them and swearing as he notices the men gaining space on them, "Go on, Hosea," He encourages after Charles takes the jump, he tries to be gentle, really does, his own heart thrums as he imagines himself plummeting onto the cobblestone.

Hosea looks at him for a moment, face strewn with worry before he nods, takes a step back and runs to the edge, jumping across and landing roughly onto the next rooftop. He wobbles for a moment but Dutch grabs his hand, pulls him away and Lenny jumps next, rolling when he lands on his side and pushes himself up quickly.

"Your turn, John," Arthur jerks his head, turning his attention to the men following and shooting the closest, he wouldn't want John captured, and it seemed better to hang back and cover fire, anyway, "Go on, hurry!" he urges. 

John nods unevenly, wiping sweat from his forehead, closes his eyes and jumps. He swears as he lands on the edge of the opposite rooftop, sliding down and barely catching himself with on hand.

Arthur shouts in distress, something between a curse at how stupid John is and a call for someone to help the fool up. Lenny and Javier retrace their steps, grabbing John's forearm and pulling him till he has enough space to climb the rest.

"Come on, Arthur!" Hosea shouts, ducking when a bullet comes too close, Arthur shoots the culprit. Arthur breathes in deep, taking a step back and running to the edge.

"Stop!" one of the police officers shouts, and Arthur hears the bullets intensify. Only a few feet away from the jump, Arthur feels fire ripple through his body from one source and he curses as he stumbles and lands on his knees. John yells, and their side starts to fire again.

"Arthur!" Dutch yells, distressed as they wait for him, out in the open, _like a bunch of goddamn idiots_. But behind his fear and worry, he can admit that he's grateful they didn't leave him behind, and he gets to his feet unevenly, pressing a hand to the hole in his stomach, staining his white shirt and creating a splotch of red that's rapidly growing. When he looks up, John and Hosea have their eyes glued to his hand, several emotions on their face, mostly fear.

He winces, vision blurring as he tries to draw himself to his full height and takes a step back. The adrenaline helps, he's fairly sure if it weren't for it he'd stay on the ground and wait till death comes to collect. The jump pulls at his wound, and he finds himself flailing as he feels himself fall, but thankfully, he lands on the edge and stumbles the rest till John grabs him by his collar and pulls him close. "I've got you, brother, I've got you," he frantically whispers and Arthur sinks a bit, letting John pull his arm around his shoulder to support him, and he notes that the gunfire had ceased, for the most part. The police still whistle, some still shout and undoubtedly, there'll be more climbing this very moment. 

"Come on," John mumbles "How're you feeling?"

"Like I'm overworked and underpaid," he answers gruffly, limping alongside John as they follow the rest. Javier shoulders down a door that leads to the apartments downstairs. And they enter, John and Arthur being the last with Javier locking the door behind them, the noise of outside muffling and Arthur sighs. 

"Quiet, nobody fire," Dutch whispers down the stairs. Arthur unhooks his arm from around John and leans on the wall instead letting John join the others as he takes the stairs slow. The others make sure they clear out the way, whispering to each other and walking in a line.

Hosea hangs back, hand hovering over Arthur's shoulder, waiting for him to collapse it seems, but he's still got some fight in him, no matter how much his body begs otherwise.

The hassle of the stairs ends peacefully, and Arthur keeps his palm against the wall as Dutch and John break into an apartment, guns up and ready. Whatever luck they had left spends itself into that apartment, and as Hosea helps Arthur follow the thinning crowd in the hallway, he discovers the apartment is deserted. Bare creamy walls and dark Grey cement floors, unfinished but with a few paint cans and wooden boards littering the area, a single chair, a few cloths covering some of the more expensive wooden boards. It doesn't have anything to light it, except a single small window that Arthur doubts could be used as an escape plan if they so need to.

Hosea helps him limp to the far end of the apartment, none of them bother to break open the locked doors of the other rooms, too much noise and work. They're all spent, John pacing slightly as Dutch signals Bill to get up from the chair. Javier reserves himself to a corner and Micah the same, Charles waits patiently, eyes following Arthur as Hosea lowers him to the ground, letting him lean against the wall.

Hosea pats his shoulder, pushing away Arthur's jacket to examine the extent of the bleeding. Whatever he sees is deemed worthy of a sigh, and he takes off his jacket, pressing it against the wound. Arthur arches under the pressure, letting out a muffled whine. Hosea gives him an apologetic smile, patting his shoulder again, squeezing slightly and turning on his knee, expression turning pinched as he watches Dutch tap his foot against the floor, head buried in his hands.

"You'll get out," Arthur assures idly, "Things went wrong but at least you're still alive," he adds optimistically and Hosea turns to him with an unreadable expression, bringing the hand that had rested on his shoulder up to his cheek.

"We'll all get out, okay? I don't need you to worry about that, though, just focus on breathing well, alright?" He says and Arthur nods, moving his hands to take the bloodied jacket from Hosea's hands, pressing it himself and letting his head drop against the wall when another wave of pain burns through his abdomen.

He let's out a heavy breath, bordering a pant and closes his eyes. A hands grabs at his jaw, and Arthur opens his eyes to see Hosea shaking his head, "No, don't--try not to close your eyes alright? Stay awake in case we need to move," He orders, eyes scanning him again and Arthur huffs. He's pretty sure he doesn't want him to die in his sleep, or enter a coma or several other arguably undesirable outcomes of Arthur not staying awake. But he nods anyway, looking down at his hands, splotches dark red with his own blood.

Hosea moves away, closer to Dutch but Arthur doesn't stay in solitude for long, John replacing him pretty quickly and sitting next to Arthur. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, taking out a small bottle and offering it to Arthur, "Miracle Tonic," He explains, "I know it won't do nothing for the... the bullet, but it'll help with the pain,"

"Thanks," Arthur manages as he grabs the bottle, hands trembling no matter how hard he tries to force it to stop, he resolves that he has an excuse, and he's tired enough to not care. He takes a swig of the small bottle, vision blurring at the taste of raw herbs and alcohol, burning down his chest till it rests in his stomach, and the pain is only temporary before the familiar effects take place. The numbness all over, his hands still tremble, but the lathargy that had weighted them down lifts, the burning in his stomach weakens, still hurts and proves dangerous, but he can manage. He feels more ready to stay alive, the yellowish tint in his vision that the tonic leaves behind fading.

He shakes his head, letting the bottle drop to his lap and slide off to the ground. John waits, like he wants Arthur to critique his ability to buy tonics, or on the off chance, his ability to brew tonics. "Thanks," he repeats and John nods, relaxing into the wall, eyes falling to Arthurs bleeding stomach every few seconds.

"You got shot from behind?" He asks and Arthur nods, absent mindedly reaching to touch the entry wound, grimacing when it stings badly, hands coming back even more bloody, "We need to stop that... the bleeding... you got a lasso?"

"No, left it at camp," He groans, shifting and pushing himself to a better position, one that doesn't pull at his back. 

"We'll find something," John says absentmindedly, eyes raking the apartment, "Just-just hang tight," 

"Ain't got nowhere to go," he drawls, leaning against the wall heavily and staring at Dutch and Hosea speaking in whispers. 

 


	3. Birds of worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! When I reread the last chapter I realized that the draft posted was the 2nd draft and was missing some paragraphs! I fixed that, so I'm really sorry about the mix up!

The seconds ticked by as Hosea watched Dutch tap his foot worriedly against the floor, each _tick_ his heel sounded was another brick of worry mounting on the rest of the men. John had his arm over his eyes, lying beside Arthur who’s staring patiently at the ceiling above him, a worrying amount of blood pooling under him.

  
They’ve been trying to wait out the whistles outside, had heard the stomping of horse hooves and the shouts of Pinkertons dispersing and searching for them. But it had quietened, the sun now not as high as it had been, sunlight giving a slight tint of orange to the apartment.

  
Hosea looks back at Arthur, who hadn’t moved an inch. His stillness would be worrying if it weren’t for the quick draw of his breath, shallow and hurried, like a man hiding from death. Hosea abandons his post by Dutch, giving a squeeze to the man’s shoulder as he leaves and the only response he gets his the slight raise of Dutch’s head.  
Once Hosea breaks into Arthur’s peripherals, Arthur turns to look at him, movement sluggish with blood loss. It’s all too reminiscent of Davey, and how he slowly drained away. But that won’t be Arthur’s end, no, Hosea wouldn’t stand for it. Dying in an abandoned apartment, trapped by police and Pinkertons, bleeding out, it’s not how Arthur deserves to go, no matter how lowly he thinks of himself.

  
Hosea scans the apartment for a minute, tallying what they can use as a substitute to bandages. When his eyes drift towards Bill, perched beside some cut floorboards that have a sheet draped over them, supposedly to protect them from paint and dusting. “Bill,” Hosea whispers, and in the silence of the room, it travels easily, the man jerks, sitting straight, “Give that,” Hosea instructs, point at the sheet and Bill nods, heaving himself to his feet and tugging the cloth off the boards harsher than necessary, one almost clutter to the ground, and Hosea freezes, watching it fall. Thankfully, Javier catches it as mid fall, placing it gently on the floor.

  
Bill breaths out a sigh, looking around nervously, wait for someone to scold him, when no one does he hurries the length of the apartment, handing Hosea the sheet hastily. His eyes travel over Arthur, before he turns and returns to his waiting post.  
The sheet isn’t the best substitute, it’s a thin, cotton piece that looks like it belongs on a bed rather than some wood pile and least of all around a bleeding man’s torso, but it’ll do, it’s all they have. Arthur watches him indifferently, and Hosea can’t help but notice the paleness of his face.

“Alright, Arthur,” Hosea whispers, hands falling to Arthur’s, pausing when he feels just how cold they are, “We need to do this fast, Alright? It might hurt, but it’ll help, now, come on,” he urges gently, pulling his ruined jacket from Arthur’s clutch and throwing it to the side, guiding Arthur’s stained hand to his shoulders.

  
Slowly, he folds the sheet, then guides Arthur to lean forward, taking it slow when the younger man winces wordlessly, face scrunching up in pain, but the expression is gone when Hosea blinks, replaced by a stony glare somewhere over his shoulder and the tight clench of his jaw. Hosea smiles reassuringly.

  
With Arthur’s back off the wall, Hosea clicks his tongue at the stained wall, dripping into the puddle. It’s no surprise that Arthur’s paling fast, that’s he’s only been shot upmost an hour ago and he looks worse for wear. He’s bleeding fast, the back of his jacket with a large wet circle darkening the black pigment.

  
It’s by no means an assuring sign, even returning from Colm’s hands, Arthur had color to his cheeks and less blood covering his body, sure the color had been from the fever and a shoulder wound is different than a gutshot but still, _the difference_ … it digs worry deep into Hosea’s bones, engraving it over his ribs. “Okay, Arthur, I’m going to tie this around you,” Hosea mumbles thoughtlessly, easier for him to keep his mind out of his worry and keep Arthur updated, to expect the pressure and pain.  
Arthur doesn’t respond immediately, and when Hosea pauses to look at him. He stares at Hosea, eyes half closed, drained from being well… slowly drained, he blinks owlishly at him, then his gaze turns earthwards.  
Hosea shifts to his knees, slinging one end of the sheet around Arthur’s waist, raising it till it hugged the entry wound. “Ouch, “Arthur draws, almost sarcastically, probably Jokingly but the effect is lost when his breath hitches as Hosea tightens the sheet, wrapping it twice before tucking it inside itself. It’s almost instantaneous that a small dot of red seeps through, looking pinkish as it gets absorbed. It won’t hold long, and if his jacket is anything to go by, Arthur’s already lost too much.

  
“Is it too tight?” Hosea asks, pulling back, he eyes the pool of blood on the floor as he waits for a response. He should probably move him, if for nothing else then for comfort.

  
“Naw,” Arthur shakes his head, eyes falling shut in the aftermath, “I-I can’t rightly tell anyhow, everything hurts,” He admits and Hosea presses a firm hand to Arthur’s, bringing it down from his shoulder down between them. Arthur looks at it, then up at Hosea, giving a crooked half smile, “Don’t you worry old man,” he says, sliding his other hand from Hosea’s shoulder and using it to enclose Hosea’s hand, “We’ll figure something out, we always do,”

  
It’s hopeless optimism, one that Hosea hadn’t seen in Arthur much, only on the rare occasions where one or the other had dropped their façade. Hosea squeezes back, turning to look at Dutch for a moment, catching him staring at the duo silently, a sort of hopelessness in his eyes.

  
Silently, Hosea pleads for him to come talk to Arthur, offer some sort of consolation, stand by him while he’s slowly fading away. Dutch shakes his head, and if the situation was less dire, Hosea would understand, there’s no pain like seeing your son die in front of your eyes, but there’s also no worse death than one without your family by your side.

  
The least Arthur deserves is to have them by his side, as he always had been, whether standing by Dutch and his crazy plans, going along with Hosea’s antics for the sake of a con, or simply protecting them when things go wrong. Arthur had always been here, and he deserves the same from them. And so Hosea doesn’t falter his gaze, sets his jaw and jerks his head slightly, urging Dutch, who, after a moment of contemplation, stands from his chair.

  
Hosea turns away, assured by the click of Dutch’s shoe that he’s in fact coming closer. For a quick moment, his heart drops when his eyes fall on Arthur, head dropped and eyes closed. Before doing anything rash or desperate, he squeezes his hand, pulling the man out of whatever state of slumber he’d been in. Arthur blinks at him, then turns to the shadow over Hosea shoulder. He raises a hand, giving a quirk of his wrist as a hello and Dutch chuckles bitterly, placing himself cross-legged beside Hosea.

  
“This an intervention?” Arthur mumbles weakly, and one drop of Hosea’s gaze confirms that the sheet already sprouted a blotch of blood, not thick enough to drip to the floor but rich in color nevertheless.

  
“Always with jokes, Arthur,” Dutch whispers, a small pained smile on his lips and Arthur shrugs, eyeing them both before turning back to Dutch, “How’re you feeling,” he asks, eyes following Hosea’s gaze and fixing on the bloody makeshift bandage.

  
“I’ll be fine, one way or another,” He replies, and Hosea fixes him a stern glare, and Arthur gives a chuckle, “You should start thing about the others, you can’t stay here forever, they’ll eventually find us,” he says and Dutch nods, hand coming to his chin and pinching his jaw, already spiraling into his own mind.  
Hosea grabs his shoulder before he’s too far gone, and Dutch looks at him, almost startled. “We’ll think of something, but for now we need to focus on keeping you alive,” he says, frank and honest. Dutch agrees with a low mummer and Arthur gives the start of a chuckle, breaking off with a wince and a groan, shifting and leaning backwards. Hosea shakes his head, fitting his arms around Arthur’s chest and slowly lifting him, Dutch getting the hint and helping lift him up. Arthur doesn’t argue as the shuffle away from the bloody spot, but sighs as they place him a few paces away, leaning against the wall and letting his eyes close.

  
It feels blasphemous to grab his arm, shaking him so he’d open his eyes again, and the gaze he fixes on Hosea forces a lump into his throat. Tired, and hopeless. He’d seen a similar one, around ten years back, when Arthur had came back to camp with the fire in his eyes unlit and horrible news to deliver. But this is a tamed version, while the other was the product of fresh and raw grief, this is one of giving up, hopelessness. He can’t decide which he likes less.

  
“Stay awake, for me,” he tries, and Arthur blinks slowly, gaze falling on Dutch, then trailing to Hosea’s right, where John lays asleep.

  
“Okay,” Arthur agrees, taking in a deep breath and sagging into the wall. Dutch places a hand over Hosea’s shoulder, pulling him away gently. Hosea complies, giving a squeeze to Arthur’s hand before standing along side Dutch. With one last lingering stare, they turn, walking a few paces before Dutch takes ahold of his arm.

  
“He’s not going to make it,” He says, eyes boring into Hosea’s soul, dark brown looking black in the shadow of the apartment. Hosea pulls his hand away, looking back at Arthur, who’s watching them curiously and then back to Dutch.

  
“You _can’t have possibly_ -“

  
“I’m not _giving up_ on him,” Dutch hisses, stopping Hosea before he started, “I’m saying we need to find a way out here, before it’s too late for him. I assume the word had travelled to camp by now, and I also assume Grimshaw had enough good sense to move them, we don’t know where they’re at, and he needs medical supplies,”

  
“And we can’t risk a doctor,” Hosea continues and Dutch nods, “Where will we go? We’re not exactly a small group, and we don’t have safe houses,”

  
“I don’t know, yet, but I know that what he said is right,” Dutch sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, “We need to move, they’ll probably search every building for us, we can’t risk staying here long,”

  
“We can move when the sun goes down,” Hosea suggests, “then we’ll have the cover of night, and I’d assume most of the force would be removing the bodies,” the room turns silent, both Hosea and Dutch’s eyes falling on Arthur, who’d directed his gaze to the ceiling again.

  
“ _How_ -“

  
“Someone will stay by him, while we move, the rest will move ahead,” Hosea answers quickly, the question had already bounced in his head several times, “John, Javier and Lenny are good at stealth, they could be upfront, leading the way,"

  
“Not Charles?”

  
“Charles…he-he’s one of the few that can carry Arthur, if anything goes wrong. He should stay by him,” Hosea explains, turning to look at the man in question. Charles nods in agreement, and Hosea nods back, a small amount of hope regained.

  
“Bill and Micah?” Dutch asks, and the two men perk up at the sound of their name.

  
“Well, I’m not for pairing them, it’d be a massacre before we’re even out of the building,” Hosea chuckles quietly, Dutch raising an amused eyebrow. Bill frowns, on the verge of complaining but holds his tongue, surprisingly, and leans against back as he had been. Micah, on the other hand rolls his eyes and sneers.

  
“You should stay with them,” Dutch proposes and Hosea huffs, “Maybe the four of us can stay behind, with enough space between us so that we won’t be easy to spot but not too far from the first group,”

  
“Arthur and Charles should be in the middle,” Hosea says and Dutch nods, “If anything goes wrong, we can fall back onto them, they’ll be our middle ground,”

  
“Hopefully nothing does,” Dutch sighs, posture falling for a moment before picking himself up again, “Now we just need to wait for darkness,” he says, looking out the window towards the falling sun.

  
“Shouldn’t be too far now,” Hosea notes, taking out his pocket watch. It’s only 3 in the afternoon. With a sigh, Hosea looks back at Dutch, unable to not notice the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles of worry forming between his eyebrows, “you should rest, we need you energized,” he encourages and Dutch smiles with no real humor behind it, eyes turning to Arthur again, “I’ll stay by him, you haven’t slept yesterday, we need you as alert as possible,” Hosea explains.

  
Dutch quirks an eyebrow, smiling slyly and asking, “Oh so I get to sleep but you stay up?”  
Hosea smiles in return, giving a playful slap to the younger man’s shoulder, “Well I had the good sense to sleep, ‘sides, all you’ll do is worry the boy and make the rest of us miserable, you worrywart,” he teases slightly and Dutch chuckles slightly, a bit of ease settling in his troubled eyes, “now go, I’ll wake you in a few hours,” he gives a slight push to Dutch’s shoulder, and Dutch chuckles again, but takes his seat and leans back, making show of closing his eyes and raising both hands in a gesture that means _are you happy now?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on most fics should pick up again, I'm finally done with my IGCSE's! It's been a horrid 2 months but now it's over!


	4. it's the bad luck that is always by my side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Surgery of sort and I guess blood? If you're bothered by blood/gore continue at your own risk! Just thought I'd add this JIC.
> 
> POV changes in the middle of the chapter.

Night falls, it darkens the apartment to the point where it’s getting hard to pinpoint who is sitting where. The trickle of light from the moon is weak, only highlighting the window, casting more shadows on Dutch as he  _tries_  to rest. Everyone knows that under his closed eyelids is a mind spinning, and he also knows it's out of anyone’s hands, even Hosea’s, and they can’t force him to sleep, they’d lost the ability somewhere around Colter.   

Hosea had placed himself beside Arthur, and Arthur had tried his best to stay awake for him, the older man trying to keep him up by holding conversations, but that had stopped fairly quickly when Arthur had grown too weak to speak, feeling like he’d throw up if he dared to open his mouth. The room felt absurdly cool, the sweat beading his forehead and chest misplaced, and he knows he looks gauntly and pale. He can feel his hand grow shakier as his body slowly shuts down. 

 He looks down at his stomach with something akin to an accusation, the white of the sheet now stained deep red, a wide circle that had feathered at the edges dripping blood onto his lap. 

He turns to Hosea, planning to deliver the news, only to find the man staring at him knowingly. There’s pain behind his eyes, resignation too as he pushes himself to his heel, sighing with his hand pausing over his makeshift bandage, “Arthur,” he says, it sounds more like a sigh than anything, as he’s tugging at the sheet to pull it off, Arthur winces when it pulled at his torn skin, blood seemingly  _pours_  out of him when Hosea reveals the wound and the feeling of nausea that had haunted him for a while strengthens. He bites his tongue, desperately trying to hold down the bile that had climbed his throat, squeezing his eyes for a moment.  

 Hosea swears, hands pressing against the wound hastily and Arthur gasps involuntarily, the pain spiking and sending a chill over his skin. Everything amplifies, his breathing sounding loud to his won ears and the scratch of his shirt against his skin feels almost unbearable. His past efforts go to waste and he tastes the blood before he feels it filling his mouth, barely getting a chance to tilt sideways so he wouldn’t throw up on Hosea before everything pours out.  

It  _burns_ , and it makes a headache  bloom in his head. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears for a moment, and it  _hurts_ , hurts when he gags, hurts when hands pull him straight again and he doesn’t even know when his eyes closed before someone forces them open. 

 He shivers, groaning at the taste assaulting his tongue, blood, and bile, metallic and bitter. He blinks slowly as the pain settles back in his wound, his chest still tight, and his breath comes out shallow and hurried. “Arthur!” it’s a whisper shout, and the voice is unfamiliar for a moment too long, enough to pull panic into his heart. When John’s face swims into his vision, all scarred and frowning in worry, he eases, letting the younger man pull him somewhere, supposedly away from the mess he just made. The movement jolts his wounds, but he can only muster up a hiss as he’s placed against another wall. 

 He lets his eyes close again, willing sleep to come this time, instead of fighting it, he’s so  _tired_  and he feels weak. Soon enough, he’ll die, will bleed out, so why won’t they just  _let him sleep_ . He’d rather die painless, die while he’s in oblivion, not suffer through every blood drop lost. But they  _insist_ , and John pulls at his arm  _hard_  and he forces his eyes open, leveling him a glare. 

 From over his shoulder, through his tunneling vision, he spots Hosea and Dutch going back and forth in whispers. John says something, but it’s a ring in Arthur’s ear, and he squints as his vision blurs indistinguishably. 

 He thinks he might have blacked out, but he can’t rightly say, all he knows is that the next time he opens his eyes, he’s got a crowd of people over him, and he’s on his back. For a moment, none of the faces are recognizable, until Dutch’s face clears and Arthur watches his lips moving, if he’s trying to tell him anything, then it’s lost somewhere in between them.  

 His mouth is forced open unceremoniously, and something is shoved between his teeth. He blinks wildly, feeling more and more confused as Dutch holds down his head,  _talking and taking_ but nothing comes to Arthur’s ears, the silence  is almost worrying, but nothing rotates around his head  except  _what are they doing?_  

 

 

 

Hosea worries, it’s all he seems to know how to do. He worries because the blood doesn’t stop spewing out of Arthur’s gut, worries because Arthur threw up even  _more_ blood   because Arthur isn’t waking up no matter how many times John shakes him. But he’s breathing,  _but he’s bleeding_. 

 He and Dutch try to find a solution, going back and forth but they constantly fall back on one. Hosea downright  _hates_ the idea, they  can count the number of  times  they’d done it  in their 20 years of  being a gang  on a single hand . And those  times   it hadn’t worked, the most recent being Davey, and  his absence is a clear indication that  it  _didn’t work_. And here they are, in the same situation, minus the snow cold, Arthur’s on the verge of death, bleeding out his gut, and they’re preparing to cauterize the bullet wound.  

They’re not nearly prepared, they resolve to start a small fire using a box of matches and whatever piece of cotton or paper they had found in their pockets, a handkerchief from Charles, a crumbled piece of paper from John, Javier had torn a part of his jacket, pulling out the wool and handing it to Hosea.   

John and Dutch pull Arthur to the middle of the room, and the smear of blood sends a shiver down Hosea’s spine. The apartment is slowly turning into a murder scene, and Arthur looks too much like a corpse. If it weren’t for the rasp of his breath Hosea would lose his cool and succumb to his anxieties.  

 He leaves Dutch with the responsibility of cleaning Arthur’s wound while he prepares the fire, lighting the match and dropping it into the box, watching as it set on fire, then he added the cloth he’d acquired from the others. He doesn’t wait before he pulls his knife out his holster, holding it over the fire and waiting impatiently till the blade heats. 

Dutch directs the men to hold Arthur down, from the glance Hosea risks, he can see that Arthur’s shirt and jacket had been opened as wide as they can, and the wound looks no better than what Hosea expected, skin bruised around where the bullet escaped, blood getting wiped by John only to get replaced easily. Charles and Javier search their bags for any sort of alcohol, finding none too helpful things and Hosea can’t help but feel bitter. Surrounded by thousands of dollars and thousands worth of gold and they feel like deadweight. 

  He can’t help but feel like this whole ordeal is not worth it. Can’t help but feel like their endless pursuit of money and freedom had brought them nothing but hurt. He shakes his head, watching as John wipes hastily, looking more and more sick by the second.  

Just when they’re about to give up, Javier finds a flask in the bag of goods they’d stolen off the hostages, and a sniff confirms that it’s Gin. It’s not a large amount, and so Javier carefully pours small amounts while John wipes repeatedly at the wound. 

Hosea pulls the knife out of the fire when it turns red. The fire had already started dying, meaning they need to hurry if they really want to close both wounds.  “He’s awake,” Dutch announces, Javier handing the gin to Charles so he could move to hold Arthur’s feet down, Bill by his side. Dutch cradles Arthur’s head, trying to talk to him, but from the way Dutch’s speech falters, he assumes it isn’t going through.  

John pulls his belt off, folding it once before pulling Arthur’s mouth open, tucking the belt between his teeth and returning to his job of keeping the wound clear of blood. 

 “Alright, keep him down,” Hosea orders, and John moves to hold Arthur’s hand down, Charles setting down the gin to do the same. Dutch looks at Hosea for a moment, before looking down to Arthur, who’s staring back in confusion, pale face riddled.  

“Arthur, can you hear me?” Dutch whispers and no response comes, with a sigh, he nods at Hosea. They had hoped that Arthur would’ve stayed unconscious for this, but they can’t really wait for him to sleep. And so, with a heavy feeling in his chest, Hosea steadies his hand and mentally starts to prepare for the procedure.  

 He breathes in deep, placing a hand on Arthur’s chest before bringing the knife down to the wound.  The effect is instant, Arthur’s whole body jerking, hand almost escaping Charles’ grip. He makes a protesting sound from the depth of his throat but he stops fighting when Hosea lifts the blade, still, his chest is heaving.  

No matter how much Hosea wants to give him time to recover, he can’t, because of a number of reasons. Instead, he silently apologizes when he presses the knife again. It’s deathly silent for a moment, the blood sizzling under the heat before the silence is broken when Arthur screams, arching under the pain, pulling and jerking under the men’s grip. 

 Dutch is whispering fake reassurance to Arthur, and Hosea doubts he can hear anything. Hosea doesn’t  _want_ to see his face, but he simply can’t  _not_ , the way his muffled cries of pain are echoing and the nervous twitch of everyone  magnetizes  his eyes to Arthur, and he  _hates_ that he sees .  The way Arthur’s eyes are darting around , raw fear and  pain drowning them as they  seemingly searching for  _something_ , like Dutch isn’t mere inches away and holding him. His jaw is clamped shut around the belt, Hosea’s pretty sure that his teeth had dug into the leather with irreversible damage, but that’s the least of his worries, they can buy more belts later.  

Right now, the knife is cooling, and Hosea turns to the dying fire again, hovering the bloodied knife over it and blocking out the whimpers and muffled cries and Dutch’s useless attempts of comfort with small whispers of  _it’ll be over soon_  and  _you’re going to be okay_. He pointedly stares at the heating blade, trying to set the image in his head on fire, failing when he realizes he’s instead scorched it into his memory.  

 Lenny stares at the scene, eyes wide and face pulled into a sad expression and Hosea is stricken with the realization of just  _how young_  he actually is, hadn’t even reached twenty yet and is still dragged through this mess.  

Hosea doesn’t linger, his thoughts turning more and more a mess and he’s sure that he’s mirroring it in his expression. Before he digs too deep into his regrets, he turns to Arthur again, cursing himself when he glances at his face  _again_ . The unshed tears pull at his heartstrings , veins bulging as he keeps making soft noises of distress, akin to a shot deer . It’s a  broken,   soft  noise, but it  _hurts_ , just the small resonation makes Hosea want to hand himself to the devil and apologize.  

But the reality is that they  _can’t stop_. Because it’s either death or a better chance at surviving, even for a few more hours.  

 He pulls his bottom lip before he shuffles closer, sighing and shaking his head as he presses again, and Arthur doesn’t scream this time, jerks and arches and  _cries_.  

It isn’t comforting, only means that he’s too weak to do anything else and it makes Hosea quicken his work, pressing the knife to  _finally_  close the wound before pulling away and dropping it when he finds that the blood no longer seeps out. With shaking hands, he finds himself automatically snatching the gin from beside Charles and pouring some on the burnt skin, wincing when Arthur moaned in pain but it’s for the better, he doesn’t think Arthur can go through an infection in his current state.   

“Hosea?  _Hosea,”_  Dutch says, panic-laced in his voice and the older man forces himself to look at Arthur again, dread weighing him down when he finds that Arthur had closed his eyes again, tear tracks down his cheeks glistening in the shadow of the moonlight, his head limp in Dutch’s hands. Dutch himself looks close to tears, jaw clenched tight and lip trembling slightly.  

Time seems to slow in the worst of times, and the coldness of dread is pushed by the fire of fear burning his face, heart starting to hammer in Arthur’s stead.  

Urgently, he presses his palm to Arthur’s chest again. He could swear up and down his heart actually  _stopped_  for a moment  when he  felt  nothing,  he tries again, this time on  lower   down  his chest , just under his ribs ,  and he   closes  his eyes and  prays  silently that he  finds   anything _, please god anything._  

Finally, when everything seems deathly silent, while everyone’s holding their breath and he’s pretty sure he’s praying out loud now, he feels it.  

It’s only a weak ebb, and he can see why he couldn’t feel it before. It’s so  _weak,_ but it means Arthur’s still breathing, and they still have work to do. 

The breath is forced out of him, he feels lightheaded with relief as he sighs, head dropping and he can’t help but feel like he’s g crushed by overwhelming  _tiredness_ .    Arthur’s alive, and that’s what matters.  “He’s still here,” he  says,  and  the air of the room becomes a tad bit lighter.  John  leans into Hosea’s side, hand relaxing over Arthur’s arm and after a moment he pushes himself off his knees and sits instead.  Dutch doesn’t tear his eyes off of Arthur, watching with wide untrusting eyes as Arthur’s chest ever so slightly rises with every shallow breath he takes in , “Come on,” Hosea says, tapping  John and Charles so they’d move. Javier and Bill follow, and Hosea pauses when his eyes fall on the angry  red that had blossomed between the blue and black of Arthur’s bruised stomach. It looks sickening,  he grits his teeth, eyes falling back on the red sheet and it’s almost unbelievable  that it had once been white. “We need to finish his back, too,” he  doesn’t want to,  it feels wrong to do so, put a man through so much pain only to drag him after, because they  _will_  drag him with  them, because  at the  very  _very_ least, they’ll bring his body back to bury. 

Because that seems like a growing possibility.  

Dutch gives him a disbelieving look, brushing Arthur’s matting hair off his forehead and lowering his head, deep in thought. Hosea silently motions for John to sit on Arthur’s feet, and once that’s done, Hosea slides a hand under Arthur’s neck, lifting him up slowly.  

John grapples at Arthur’s shoulder, slinging his arms around Arthur’s chest and holding him in place. Arthur’s head flops to John’s shoulder, but John nods, rolling his shoulder and holding on tighter. Hosea eyes the ashes left of the fire, sighing and pressing the meat of his palm into his eye. This is becoming more and more hard, God doesn’t want to be on their side, but to hell, if Hosea gives up, he’ll ask the devil if he has to. 

With the beginning tendrils of a headache climbing up his neck, Hosea digs into his pockets, searching for anything they can use to start a fire. He’s not much of a smoker, and his last match had been used already. He comes up empty handed, and he sighs again, disappointment bubbling up inside as he drops his head into his hands. Again, the overwhelming weight of tiredness sinks into his muscles and bones, and he finds himself not wanting to move. He just wants to go back to camp and sleep off the entire ordeal. Wishes he could wake up and find that this had been one long terrible nightmare and they’re safe. Wishes that it had been him instead of Arthur. 

He could’ve probably prevented it, he had been checking on John when he had gotten shot if he’d been more careful if he had turned  _just a moment before_ … Arthur would be awake, would probably be mouthing off to Dutch. The knowledge that the bastard that had shot him is dead doesn’t do much of anything, he only feels empty, spent and too old to be sitting here; his hands dirty with the man he calls his son’s blood. 

There’s pressure behind his eyes, and he almost  _laughs_. He hadn’t cried in a good eight years, ever since Bessie had died and he had climbed up from his grief-filled stupor, came damn near after Blackwater, with all the deaths and watching John fight a fever on a snowy mountain where even the fittest were shivering. 

 It seems like a good enough time to cry, if not because of the choking anxiety boiling up his withering lungs then for the misery of the whole situation. In retrospect, Hosea doesn’t even know why he thought this  _would_ work, nothing had gone their way  for a long, long while now. And it’s not a streak of bad luck, no, it’s the fact that the world is changing and they’re too stubborn and  _old_  and jaded that they can’t change with it. 

A warm hand comes down on his shoulder, and Hosea smiles slightly, already knowing who’s it is.  He drops his hands, staring at John and Arthur, eyes fixed on how tight John’s holding on, knuckles white and fingers threaded together behind Arthur’s back.  

Dutch pulls on his arm, and Hosea complies, letting the younger man press something into his palm. Surprised, he twists to look at his hand, a matchbox,  _another one_. He would be mad that Dutch didn’t summon this from wherever he had before, but the relief cooling his chest is much more interesting to focus on. “Found it on Micah,” Dutch whispers, fingers twitching on the sides of Hosea’s palm, “Come on before it’s too late,” he mumbles, lowering himself to his knees and reaching to grab the knife, “Keep our boy alive,”  

Hosea smiles, a little sad, a little hopeful, entirely grateful. He takes the knife when Dutch extends it to him, shuffles to his knees to copy Dutch’s position. The matchbox feels like a blessing in his hand, a small godsent thing and he  _can’t wait_ to set it on fire.  

And so, he does, a few paces away from Arthur and John he lights the fire. John helps Dutch pull off Arthur’s jacket and shirt, still holding Arthur upright with one arm. The entry wound looks smaller, barely the width of his index finger. It’s oozing slower, Dutch wipes only a few times, with Arthur’s discarded shirt, before pouring the gin to clean it. 

Hosea assumes it had started to clot, which he counts as another small blessing. As the knife starts to turn red, Hosea pulls it off the diminishing box and gives it a shake before scooting the distance between him and Arthur.  

Mind blank, he presses the width of the knife against the small wound. Arthur shifts in John’s hold, letting out a low groan before going silent. Hosea pulls back the knife, humming at the scorch mark left. Carelessly, he lets the knife drop, snatching Arthur’s jacket and ignoring the ruined shirt as he drapes the jacket across Arthur’s shoulders, tapping John’s arm so he’d let go, and reluctantly he does so. 

Dutch helps Hosea fit Arthur into the jacket, both working silently on moving him so he’d rest in a position that won’t jolt his wounds. Dutch pauses when Arthur’s secured against a wall, fingers searching for a pulse point on his neck, and when he eventually finds it, he pulls back, slightly more reassured.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to accurately portray Hypovolemic shock, Arthur supposedly goes through both mild and severe symptoms. And the preparation for Causturization should be better handled, sorry for any medical inaccuracies, I tried my best!


	5. Walls cave in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I hold a tinnnnnnny grudge against Dutch?
> 
> ...maybe. Do I show it in my writing?
> 
> .... Perhaps.

The minutes seem to move slower than Dutch thought possible. He’d been in moments that seemed to stretch forever but this day seems to drag along _infinitely_.

He’s _barely_ holding on, only because he knows if he doesn’t then things will go even more down to hell faster than he can say ‘fuck’. Hosea had lost his resolve completely after the… the _surgery_ , his entire posture fading and his status as a pillar of hope crumbles temporarily. Arthur still hadn’t moved much, but his eyes move hurriedly under his lids and he twitches slightly, face turning between pained to worried, the little wrinkles between his eyebrows permanently engraved into his sleeping face.

  
They need to move in an hour or so, when the streets are pitch black and the patrols thin. Dutch doesn’t say out loud how he doesn’t think the patrols will ever thin, because one single look around the apartment, one look at the solemn and tired faces of his gang tells him that he’s the only thing holding them together, him and his fake optimism. And that’s something he shoulders with trouble because he isn't used to it, _Arthur_ and _Hosea_ always had been the ones to lift the spirits of the gang. Arthur with his usual rounds of greetings and check-ups and Hosea with his stories and general contagious good moods. Though that hadn’t been the case since Sean’s death, that seemed to dampen Hosea’s spirits significantly and, though he hides it well, had hurt Arthur more than anyone would expect.

  
But no need to dwell on that, Dutch resolves, because he can spiral into an infinite loop of grief and guilt and _we could have done that’s_ and  _what if's._  Now is not the time, perhaps when they’re reunited with the rest of the gang, or when Arthur’s awake and recovering, or after Hosea rests and starts to feel like himself again. Not now, not in this apartment that’s filled with the stench of blood, burnt skin, sweat, and bile. The opened window doesn’t do much since they’re afraid someone would get suspicious if they open it the entire way, but it's enough to let a gentle current through, enough to smell the city smoke. 

  
Dutch stands, and he’s overwhelmed by the amount of hopelessness that stares back at him,  _waiting_ for him to do something,  _say something_. Lenny stares up with his frown, almost a pout but not really. Charles with his indifferent expression, John stares like he expects nothing out of him, out of them. Hosea isn’t even looking at him, clutching Arthur tightly to his chest after John’s arms had gone numb and the fear of death became ever so imminent. Bill and Javier look tired but determined all the same, and Micah doesn’t bother to school his carelessness for the situation, eyes gazing back like it’s another day. Though Dutch never knew how to read him right, as much as he hates to admit it, he doesn’t really _know_ what’s going on in that little head of his.

  
“We need to start getting ready… to _head out_ ” Dutch clears his throat, running a hand down his face before turning to pace, “Javier and John, you’ll lead the way, Lenny, you too. I assume the horses have either ran or got locked down, so we’ll need to find a way on foot. We need to be discrete, and I want you to steer us. We’ll all depend on you,” Lenny listens raptly, tapping his finger against his thigh as he nods in silent agreement.

  
“Sure, Dutch,” John replies, eyes falling back to Hosea and Arthur but doesn’t say much, “We leave through the dock, it's always quiet there, and we can walk between the trains, should give us good enough cover,” he suggests and Javier nods.

  
“The stables on the way, they probably cleared out the owner and the working hands, but I think there could be horses there,” Javier adds, “We could take them,” 

  
“Arthur has a couple horses stabled there,” Charles points out, “Fortuna and Innus, after the mess in Rhodes, he moved them,” he clarifies, “They’re fairly docile, and Fortuna is strong, Arthur and someone else can probably ride her. Innus is fast…” Innus, being Arthur’s Nokota, was small but fast. Dutch had seen Arthur coo and fuss over the horse for weeks until he’d been satisfied with the bond between them. He hadn’t seen Fortuna much, but from what little he’d heard Arthur talk about her with Kieran, she’d been treated poorly by some Lemoyne Raider and he’d taken it upon himself to take in the Thoroughbred.

  
It sounded promising, Two horses already in their plans, one that will carry Arthur and Hosea, another that will carry whoever gets his hands on it. Worse comes to worst, they’ll steal a law man’s horse. That is if they aren’t gunned down.

  
“That’s great,” Dutch says, a little more motivated, ignoring the worry irking him, the constant nag at the back of his mind that someone can die. Because they’d already been _thisclose_ to losing someone already because they’re _still_ close to death. They’re a large group too, almost ten, and their movements are hurtled with Arthur.

  
But there is simply no choice but to take him with them because Dutch couldn't leave him. He _wouldn’t_ , no matter the wicked little voice telling him that it’d be easier. That he should just cut him loose and make it easier, fewer burdens and fewer men to move.

  
But Arthur is _family_ , he’s one of what Hosea calls ‘the original guard’ and he’s Dutch’s son, if not, then, he’s as close as a brother. Arthur had always been there, he’d carried Dutch and Hosea a number of times, had always lagged behind to make sure no one was left behind. The last thing he deserves is to _be_ left behind.

  
It isn’t right.

  
And Dutch shoves that thought deep _deep_ down his brain, alongside every other scandalous thought he'd had. “Charles, you’ll stay with Arthur,” he informs briefly, already knowing that Charles knows and agrees. Expectedly, Charles gives a nod, and stays silent, “Micah, Bill, you’re with me and Hosea,” he waves dismissively as he turns to the window, looking outside it into the darkness of the alleyway.

  
They’re three stories up, but there’s a fire escape ladder an arm’s reach away. Its railing is connected to the outside of the window, it seems like a small blessing amidst a disaster, and Dutch doesn’t think of it much in hopes of leaving it as perfect as it is.

  
“We’ll head out through the fire escape,” he declares, his chest slowly getting lighter at the prospect of leaving this godforsaken city. He vows silently to himself that he’ll never willingly step a foot here again, never.  
He checks his watch again, quietly frowning when the clock ticks 8 pm. It’d been the longest day he’d ever had the displeasure of experiencing. But things are on the up again, as long as they leave the city, they’ll be able to pick their pieces up.

  
Because he knows Arthur will survive, that boy always, always had a remarkable talent for going through the unimaginable and coming out with a disgruntled opinion. The number of times he’d seen him come back with bruises, cuts or bullet wounds are far too many for his liking, but he’d survived this long, he’d survived bear attacks and angry cougars, he’d survived Colm and all the gangs that held a grudge against them, he’d survived his father, bounty hunters and the few times the law actually got to him. He always survives, and he’ll be damned if he dies at the hand of an unnamed enemy, an unnamed enemy under the command of that humanified _piece-of-shit_ named Milton.

  
Hosea will get better too, and although his so-called dream of Tahiti seems impossible, always had seemed like that, they’ll get out somewhere. Today puts a lot of things in perspective for him. He’d almost lost Hosea, saw the gun tucked up against his head, and he’d been foolish and he’d tried to bargain like Milton hadn’t had enough of him. And he knew that he knew it was impossible, yet he _still_ did it. Because it’s the _only_ thing he knows, all he knows is how to scam, how to fool people, but Milton knows him too well.

  
_He’d almost lost Hosea._

  
And it seems too far back yet so fresh that Dutch can’t help but feel angry, angry at himself. Because if Arthur hadn’t stepped up and forced Dutch into silence and took matter into his own hands, unprompted, had put himself on the line because he’d seen through Dutch’s bluster just as Milton has then...then Hosea wouldn’t be quietly mumbling into his ear, wouldn’t have devised a plan with him, would be with him. He’d almost ruined it all by his own making, his own stubbornness, his own nature. It’s overwhelming, the amount of emotion that flash in his chest, anger, and fear, guilt, disgust, and hate. Hate that burns inside his gut, for so many people.

  
Usually, when he’s overwhelmed as he is, he seeks Hosea out. Because Hosea always sets him straight, or on several cases, slaps sense into him. Literally. But, again, Hosea has enough emotions on his own plate, and Dutch can’t possibly burden him even more. Instead, he takes a seat beside him silently, taking comfort that what happened is done, history has passed and all they can do is learn from their mistake. He needs to learn from his, because after all these years, after over two decades of thieving and robbing, he still takes people for granted. He undermines the law, he’d undermined Cornwall and his stubbornness, Milton and his patience, Colm and his sense of hate.

  
And on all three occasions, he’d almost lost a family member. John, he’d almost gotten his head blown off. Hosea, again, shot and killed. Arthur, by what he described it, he’d been hanging like a skinned deer for days,  _tortured._

It strikes him all at once, that on all three occasions it had been Arthur who saved the day. For John, for Hosea, for himself, and what did Dutch do? He kept going like nothing had happened.

  
Because he’s a fool, an arrogant, _arrogant_ fool who’s outlived his time. He’d almost dragged down the people he loved and cared for as well.

  
Carefully, he reaches for Hosea, because he needs physical confirmation that he’s truly here, that the man he’d spent twenty years of his life with, the man he loves and would die and kill for, is here. Is still here to shout at him, to scold him, to assure him, to make him feel _safe_.

  
Hosea releases one arm from around Arthur, who shivers but stays asleep, and takes Dutch’s hand, squeezing it once. Dutch relaxes ever so slightly, leans towards Hosea till their shoulders touch, it’s not something he meant to do, but at this point, it’s necessary for both of them. They’re both emotional wrecks who’re poorly holding it together, but they can’t exactly break down in front of so many of their men.

Their men who’re struggling with their own fears and worries.

  
“Should we try and wake him?” Dutch whispers, partly because he can’t raise his voice above a whisper, and that if the answer is no, he doesn’t want to disturb Arthur. Hosea shifts, pulling Arthur higher into a sitting position and turning to Dutch.  
There’s a subtle panic in his eyes, but it’s drowned out by the utter conflict the question had dropped on him. On one hand, a conscious Arthur would be easier to move, on another, it feels morally wrong to put Arthur in the real world; where he’d have to face his pain head-on.

  
The decision is up to Hosea, and it seems to take a minute before he finally makes up his mind. With a heavy exhale, Hosea pushes Arthur towards Dutch, and Dutch grapples at Arthur jacket to keep him up. When the youngest of the three is safely tucked against Dutch, back to chest, Hosea kneels in front of him, eyes dropping to where the burnt skin lies hidden under the jacket. Slowly, almost unsurely, Hosea cups Arthur’s face and reaches a hand to shake his shoulder.

It doesn’t work, not the first three times anyway, and it’s enough for Dutch to tighten his clutch around the youngest of the three. The rattle of his lungs is the only thing that keeps them reassured, and finally on the fourth shake, when Hosea pats Arthur’s cheek, he groans lowly. “Wake up,” Hosea whispers softly, bringing his other hand to Arthur’s cheek, “Come on, Arthur, we need to move,” He encourages and by the expression that paints his face, it works, “Come on, let’s get ourselves home,”  

“...Where?...” Arthur mumbles, the rest of the sentence falling silent. Hosea sighs and looks at Dutch with a puzzled expression that slowly turns into resignation. They hadn’t thought that far ahead, on normal circumstances, they’d camp somewhere safe, maybe deep in the forest or (ideally) go back to camp. Even after Blackwater, they had the chance to return to camp and regroup, treat their injured and pack what they can. Now they have nowhere to go, all they can hope for is to get out and not necessarily  _get out and go there_.

“We’ll find a place,” Hosea promises and Arthur hums shortly, and even from the brief second, Dutch can tell Arthur doesn’t really believe him. But he twists in Dutch's arms anyway and Dutch releases him. Arthur's palm landing on the floor as he tries to stand, managing to lift himself for a second but he crashes to his knees with a sharp hiss after a moment. Hosea is quick to slip himself under Arthur's arm, slotting himself to his side so the younger man would have something to lean against. It's a heartbreaking sight, for Dutch anyway and surely for Hosea, because Arthur submits too easily to being manhandled and cared for. The Arthur he knows, the one he grew older with, the  _healthy_ one, he would've spit and fought till Hosea let him walk on his own. 

Halfway up, Hosea pauses when Arthur starts to shiver. Dutch stands, forcing himself to stop _ignoring_ the situation and become involved. His feelings and turmoil had made him do some regrettable choices, not only on accounts of revenge and murder but also on the times he'd distanced himself and ignored people's pain to protect his own psyche. It only takes a touch to Arthur's hand to feel how cold he truly is, and he flinches away from the heat of Dutch's hand but allows him to slide himself under his other arm, mirroring Hosea. 

"Arthur, can you talk to me?" Hosea whispers and Arthur raises his head slowly in response, eyes squeezed shut and arm tense around Dutch's shoulder.  He pulls in a deep breath, teeth clenched tightly as he bows under the pain again, forcing the pair holding him to bend with him so he wouldn't strain his shoulder, "Arthur?"

"Everything  _hurts, Hosea_ " Arthur grits out, and Dutch knows it's meant to sound angry but raw _pain_ drowns his tone and Hosea's face falls. Dutch can practically feel the hope drain from the room, Hosea mumbles something into Arthur's ear and the youngest man nods slowly.

"Alright," Hosea sighs, looking over Arthur's back to Dutch, "I think the sooner we move the better," it's unspoken, but Dutch understands. The more they wait, the closer to death Arthur becomes, the harder it becomes to move him. 

"Alright," Dutch agrees, "Men, come on, as we said, John, Javier, Lenny you first." he directs, pausing as the men start to rise. Micah elbows Bill, who was previously nodding off, and they stand, waiting their turn, "Charles," Dutch calls and the man in question stalks closer, tapping Hosea's shoulder so the older man would let go of Arthur. 

Arthur sags when Hosea leaves but Charles is quick to replace him, hoisting him higher, and almost lifting him alone. The weight around Dutch's shoulder lightens as Arthur drops his arm from around him, stumbling with Charles. "Go on, Dutch," Charles encourages, John throws up a finger to his lips, shushing them as he slides the window fully open, ducking out of it and landing on the metal fire escape with a soft  _clank_. 

They watch as John crouches, scanning the area before motioning for Javier and Lenny to follow. One by one, the three exit the apartment safely, Javier waits when Charles whispers for him but John and Lenny start to head down to the alleyway under. Arthur cooperates as much as he can, and it sends a twinkle of hope in Dutch's chest as Charles props him on the window and Arthur swings his legs on his own. He stumbles once his feet land, Javier catching him and guiding him towards the railing. Charles is quick to escape through the window and resume his position beside Arthur. 

"Come on, let's get home," Dutch murmurs to Hosea, who nods with a shake of his shoulder. Sometimes it escapes him that Hosea's truly aging, and the man who had once carried a teenage Arthur can now hardly hold him up for a long period of time. Dutch gives him a squeeze on the shoulder, and Hosea sighs, watching as Bill swung himself out the window, shoving Micah on his way out. 

"Yeah, let's go," Hosea replies, clapping Dutch's shoulder as he moves past him. 

Dutch follows Hosea, pausing when the man disappears after the others. He takes a final spin, taking in the apartment one last time, grey floors sullied by Arthur's blood and throw up, three walls stained in splotches of blood. It's a horrid sight, Dutch can't help but think of how the owner will react. It looks like a downright murder scene, with a dried stripe of blood from where they dragged Arthur, he tears his eyes away when Hosea whispers for him, and he slides off the window sill.

He hadn't realized how stuffy the apartment had been until the cold air of Saint-Denis hit him, instantly cooling off the thin sheen of sweat he hadn't realized he'd been working up. It isn't the fresh air of Horseshoe Overlook or the dry air of Blackwater, it's _thick_ , but it's a break from the blood and sweat they'd been stowing in. 

The city is still moderately bright, lamp posts alight and already Dutch can spot a patrol in a distance. John and Javier are in the opposite way, and if Dutch has his bearings right, towards the Doctor's office. They're square in the middle of the city, it seems, and it sets an uneasy itch under Dutch's skin. The docks are further away than he realized, but it's their best bet, the other two exits have too many threats. The mayor's mansion is to their west, the farmers to their north and the Lannachechee river to their east. 

The mud squelches under Dutch's boot, and he obsessively glances over his shoulder, but worriedly glancing to where the trio is scouting. Hosea is crouched, along with everyone else except Charles and Arthur, who're sticking close to the walls so they'd blend into the shadows. John whispers something to Lenny, who shakes his head and taps Javier's shoulder. They exchange a few words before Lenny stalks back towards Dutch and the rest.

"We're going to cross the street to the other side, there's a patrol going around, so we need to move quick," He informs and the men nod between themselves. With the information spread, Lenny taps John's shoulder and they set off, sneaking past the patrol and reaching the other side peacefully. Hosea turns as Javier sets off, motioning for Bill to come with him as Micah takes a few steps back to stand beside Dutch. 

"Charles, Arthur, go on," Hosea waves them off and Charles nods, taking a look at the patrol and readjusting his hold on Arthur. Slowly, too slow for Dutch's patience, they shuffle along the street, Arthur limping as fast as he can while Charles practically drags him to John and the rest. It takes barely over thirty seconds, but it's thirty seconds too long, it's enough time for things to go downhill. But it passes, and Charles throws up a thumb. Dutch blows a breath as he watches them blur into the shadows. 

Hosea and Bill don't hang around, passing in quick paces. Micah sets off before Dutch can make sure the patrol is still unattentive, swearing to himself as he follows dutifully, eyes trained on the backs of the three men facing away. Their blue coats seem to glow in the darkness, like a flashing warning, and Dutch's heart runs a mile in his chest before he skirts beside Hosea in the safety of darkness. 

John leads them down the street, all while the group try as hard as they can to stick to the walls. They halt suddenly, just as the general store comes into view. Dutch flattens his back to the wall, not risking to ask as John and Javier hold a hand up for them to stop. Slowly, the noise of footsteps scraping against the stone and the sound of talking echos through the empty street. Dutch holds his breath as another group of three make their way across the street, thankfully heading away. Still, the air is tense as they pause in the middle of the street, one of them patting his coat for something.

It the situation was different, Dutch would have his men down them in a minute, but he knows that any missing officer at this point would cause chaos, more chaos than they can handle. The officer takes out a pack of cigarettes, passing it to the other two after he pulls out one. Their conversation quietens as they search for a light, one of the men turns towards the other patrol. Everything  _freezes_ , the man spots them, looking directly at Bill, before his eyes slide up the line towards John and then down towards Dutch. 

He splutters for a moment, reaching for this rifle, that had been slung over his shoulder, dropping the cigarette. "Van Der Linde!" he shouts after reality catches up with him, and the gunshots start almost instantly. There's an uproar in the streets, and they scatter, John, Bill, and Micah gunning for cover while Hosea, Dutch, and Lenny shoot the men in front of him.  Out of the corner of his eyes, Dutch spots Charles and Arthur moving towards the post office. A shot rings close to his feet, making him aware that they're no  _surrounded_. Whistles start up again, not nearly as much as it had been earlier that morning, but it's still loud.

Charles fires at a man who'd had pinned down Lenny, John is shouting for Bill and Micah to move up, and Hosea cringes away from a bullet that had ricocheted off the lamp post near him. Dutch wanted to scream out for them to just  _shoot_ that they need to kill every man so they'd get a chance to get out. But John and Lenny have already joined Charles and Arthur, Micah and Bill following suit and they run further towards the dock. Their plan  _might_ still work, they can  _still_ get the horses and go. So he keeps quiet, shooting the men that pose a threat, running behind Hosea as they try and catch up to their men.

The dock area is dark, so much so that Dutch struggles to see where John and the others are, his only guidance is the sound of feet thundering away. It's a blessing and a curse, it's good cover, and the shipping crates provide even  _more_. But they're scattered now, paired off and dispatched. Dutch glances behind him, watching as the lawmen group together, out of the blue, Hosea grabs him by the collar, again, dragging him between two crates. It's barely enough space for two grown men, but they manage. As quiet as he can, Dutch tries to school his heartbeat, taking in silent deep breaths as he watches the lawmen search for them.

If they're lucky, they won't get the hounds out, but Dutch doesn't count on it. 

He hopes the others had been right in the mind, enough so that they'd hide instead of fight. It's a lesson that Dutch is wrestling with, the need to fire runs in his veins like a brother to blood, but he's willing to relearn. Besides, the firm grip Hosea has on his hand stops him from moving. The whistles subside, and an uncanny silence falls over them. Dutch can't help but feel like  _something_ is watching him, or something is about to jump at him. It's an itch at the corners of his hand and numbness at the sides of his head, it makes his heart jump again.

He gently slides his hand from under Hosea's, moving slightly so he'd peak from between the crates. Instantly, his eye is drawn to the flash of white he sees, and he quickly realizes what the figure is.  _Micah_ , he thinks, and he searches around him, but no one else is in sight.

Micah is holding one of guns close to his chest, his other hand occupied with a knife. He's staring off somewhere, and Dutch follows his gaze to where a lone lawman stands, lantern in hand and pistol ready to fire. Dutch wants to shout at him  _no_ , that now is not the time for firing or an attack of  _any_ sort. But he can't, because between him and Micah stand two lawmen. If Micah sets off after the lawman he's eyeing, then he'll get shot down in two seconds flat, and Dutch is adamant about not losing anyone today.

He spots movement over Micah's shoulder, and the other man remains oblivious as another lawman makes his way over. To his credit, the man has no lantern and makes virtually no sound. He tenses, hoping that Micah's suit isn't as much of a call out as Dutch thinks it to be right now. White on white,  _they chose their suits together he should have known it's bad for stealth_. But then again, they didn't account for _this_ level of disaster. 

Dutch holds his breath, and he jumps at the touch that lands on his arm, right under his elbow.  _Hosea_ , wearing an equally worried expression, but his face hardens as he looks back at Dutch. He stays silent, but his gaze says too many words for Dutch to understand, but he knows one thing. Hosea won't let him go out and help Micah, because it's certain death, because one loss is better than two... than _three_ because Hosea is a  _fool_ when it comes to love and he'd follow Dutch just to give him a better chance at making it out.

He nods, settling back deeper into the crevis of the crates and watches as the man walks closer and closer and  _closer_. And just what Dutch thinks that maybe their luck had struck again, the man looks straight at Micah, and Micah seems to feel the weight of his gaze because, a second later, he turns to the lawman. The air turns thick, and time seems to stretch as the two men draw at each other, and then, in less than a minute, Micah's head tips back, blood spewing from the newly made hole in his forehead.

Dutch closes his eyes, looking away, towards Hosea as the officer calls out victoriously "Got one of them!" 

Hosea tears his eyes from the scene, looking behind him and ushering Dutch to follow, and the younger man does, numbly so, follows as Hosea navigates them to another crevis between another set of crates. Away from the gathering lawmen, probably dragging Micah's body away so they'd show it to Milton and whats-his-name. He pushes away the rage boiling his blood, ignores the need to shoot the man who'd shot one of  _his_ men. He follows...for once, he tries to _truly_ lie low. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever feel like you've been writing forever and look down to see that you've written 200 words only... :| 
> 
> also, why is so hard to find research on bloodloss?? I resorted to Reddit and google scholar after Mayoclinic and several other medical websites failed me.
> 
> Here are some helpful articles/sites/posts that helped me:
> 
> https://www.bryndonovan.com/2016/05/25/serious-injuries/
> 
> https://www.spinalcord.com/anoxic-brain-injury
> 
> https://painsthegame.tumblr.com/post/176926112109/internal-bleeding
> 
> https://medlineplus.gov/ency/article/000167.htm
> 
> https://www.healthline.com/health/hypovolemic-shock#causes
> 
> and some reddit threads in r/askscience and r/askreddit


	6. Purest faith unhappily forsworn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize now that Sean's horse's name is Ennis, and one of the horses in this fic is named Innus, but I had no idea. Even when I named the horse in-game Innus, I hadn't known. So there is no correlation between the two. 
> 
> So to make it clear, once I finish this fic, I'll be working on 'Know your worth' and when I finish That, then I'll be working on 'Legend of the East' all while updating 'To be borne back ceaselessly', and 'with my fading soul' ( TBBBC is almost done btw) and sorry for the readers who were expecting updates sooner. It's really hard to feel motivated these days for some reason, I have the ideas but have no way to translate them into good chapters.

The gunshot had echoed through the darkness, Charles had felt Arthur tense in his arms at the sound, both freezing in their place as they wait for one or the other to fall. After a moment where Charles is sure Arthur hadn't been shot and neither had he, he had moved them into the darkness of the trains.

The patrols had just left the trains only a few moments before, so he'd been sure they wouldn't be bothered while they pass through it. The train was dark enough that they were undetectable as they passed, Arthur in front of Charles. They pause when the passenger car ends, Charles beckoning Arthur to hide between two seats while he checked if the coast is clear. Cautiously, Charles steps into the second passenger car, he gives it a quick once over, turning on his heel in hopes, planning on telling Arthur that they can continue.

Just as he exits, one of the windows shatter behind him, and he flinches, falling between two seats reflexively. There are shouts outside, more bullets breaking the rest of the windows and glass falls around him like rain. He shields his eyes as he moves, taking out his pistol and shooting out through the broken glass. Distantly, he worries about Arthur, but he doesn't get a chance to check on him, forced to move when lawmen had started climbing into the passenger car. He hauls himself to his feet, flinching away from the tell-tale of bullets ricocheting off of steel.

He jumps into the next passenger car, bullets following him as he runs blindly, eyes closed shut in fear of being blinded by the shards of glass flying towards him. They fly open, though, when the ground escapes him and realizes he'd run out of the train, almost colliding with the coal-cart. A strangled yell escapes his throat as he falls sideways, ankle twisting as his foot escapes his shoe and his head collides harshly with the unforgiving ground. He groans, blinking sluggishly as he gazes at the train, now a blurry shape as lanterns stalk closer to him, blurry orbs at best. 

His head hurts something fierce as he tries to force himself to stand, gritting his teeth when the world spins and the ebb in his mind turns into a full attack against his brain. He falls to his knees, harsh hands gripping at his shoulder and pulling him to his knees, forcing his arms behind his back. The sound of jingling metal behind his head makes a swell of panic rise in his chest, and he wrenches his arm from the lawman's hand, throwing his elbow blindly behind him, success lasting a moment, the relief barely a second before a boot digs into his cheek and he falls onto the ground again. 

Guilt floods him as he realizes he doesn't have any way of returning Arthur back to safety, had left him alone, wounded, and half dead. If Charles dies, then he'd made his peace with it, but Arthur doesn't deserve to lose his chance of survival because of a dumb mistake. The men clasp the handcuffs around his wrists, and he sighs, resting his cheek against the floor in disappointment. Not only did he destroy Arthur's chances, he knows that the Pinkertons wouldn't kill him quickly, probably would either let the wound kill him, or trial him and hang him. That's if they don't try to interrogate him,  _that_ would set Charles' soul aflame. 

"We got him!" The officer shouts, close to Charles' ear as he pulls him to his knees, tucking his gun against Charles' back. Charles complies as they drag him to his feet, another officer confiscating his knife and shotgun, removing his gunbelt just in case. He squints when the second officer grabs his jaw, staring at him, eyes darting around his face.

"He's a new one, what's your name?" The officer asks, and Charles turns his head as the man drops his hand from his jaw. 

"Charles," He answers, and the officer nods, giving him another once over before stepping back.

"I'll go check the trains again, you hand him to Ross," 

The officer nods, giving Charles a shove forward, and he ends up stumbling when his legs wouldn't cooperate. The officer handling him steels him, tugging him backwards so he wouldn't fall, but Charles ends up on his knees anyway, and the officer almost follows. "You goddam-"  _bang_ , Charles cringes, expecting a bullet to lodge into his brain, or pain to engulf some part of him. Something warm splatters against his neck,  _blood_ , he realizes, and it takes a second for him to realize  _he_ hadn't been shot. Officers from all around start to shout, and Charles startles to his feet, looking to where the officer is lying on the ground, head bloodied from a bullet to the temple.

" _Charles!_ "  _Arthur_ , leaning heavily against the train, both arms holding his infamous Schofield, golden barrel shining in the moonlight. "Are you alright?" He grits out, stumbling down the train steps, almost falling onto the train tracks but he grabs the train. Charles moves instantly, offering his shoulder for Arthur to hang on to as he tries to tug his wrists out of the handcuffs. Arthur places a hand to stop him, sighing as Arthur slowly lowers himself beside the Officer's body, shaking hands searching for the keys. Arthur jingles them victoriously as he huffs, to a stand, knees wobbling as he squints, nose scrunching; probably dizzy. 

"Let's move to a safer place," Arthur whispers, fists clenched around the keys, "I need more time than we probably have to open them, sorry..."

"You saved my life, Arthur," Charles replies, and that's about the only thing he says. Arthur nods beside him, understanding what he means. He walks by Arthur's side as they hide between the trains, lanterns passing them by, officers no longer shouting for each other, the only shout being the body being found. "I think I see the stables," Charles whispers, and Arthur's hand twitches on his shoulder, his step becoming slightly more urgent. Hope, it bounces between them as well as relief. Charles hadn't realized it before, but his shoulders had been stiff, and they relax as the stable doors come into their view. There's a patrol a few meters away from the stable, barely visible, but still a threat. The stable has a bulb hanging above its door, lighting the area around it. 

"We need to be careful," Arthur says, wheezing a bit, Charles starts to slow his steps, their jog turning into a brisk walk. Arthur's hand squeezes his shoulder, and Charles automatically veers into the darkest part around, letting Arthur lean against the nearest wall. Arthur gives a slight chuckle, relaxing his hold on the keys and motioning for Charles to turn around. "Do you still have your gun?" he asks and Charles sighs, looking towards where they came from. He didn't grab any of his confiscated items, granted, his gunbelt and knife were in the hands of the other officer, but his shotgun had been  _right there_. 

No time to regret now, Arthur takes a moment to fit the key into the lock, a task hardened by the intense tremor in Arthur's hands. It takes another few tries for the lock to actually open, and when the telltale click sounded, Charles wasted no time to shake them off. Arthur hands him his Volcanic side-arm, Charles admires it only for a moment, white pearl grip, dark steel with silver engravings. Arthur had talked about the custom made grip, after doing a favor for the gunsmith down in Valentine. The eagle engraved grip slides against his palm, and he nods at Arthur's gaze.

It's a small sign of respect, Arthur handing his gun to Charles, one that Charles doesn't undermine. He knows Arthur had spent hard-earned money on his guns, and he had raised hell when Bill had tried to use them. Micah had once said Arthur handed him one of his guns but chose to ignore the fact that it was during his jail break-out, and it wasn't even Arthur's gun. "Lead the way," Arthur jerks his head and Charles turns towards the stable and scans the area.

"You'll hang back?" Charles asks, thumbing the hammer thoughtlessly. He hadn't used a pistol in a while, it feels too light in his hands, but he's a good shot, he can get used to it quickly enough. Arthur shakes his head, pushing himself off the wall unsteadily, "You're in no shape to fight,"

"I can still shoot, Charles," He stubbornly argues, voice dark as he draws himself to his full height. Or tries to. He arches on himself slightly, whether, from the burnt skin, the bruising or the internal damage, Charles doesn't think he wants to know. It's no use to fight, and it's no safe for Arthur to hang outside on his own. Despite his gut instinct, Charles only sighs and allows the bull-headed man to follow him. Charles hurries his step when he's under the stable's light, carefully pushing the door open. It's heavy, heavier than any barn door he'd pushed before, though he didn't have many to compare. The inside is starkly dark, horses nickering and shifting at his presence, the scent of blood probably leaving them on high alert. 

Arthur follows a few seconds later, and Charles closes the doors as gently as possible. It still thudded as it closed, but nothing that would raise immediate attention. 

Charles searches for a lantern, or a match, or anything that would give them a light source. The only source they have now are the windows, they're letting a gentle shadow in, barely enough light for Charles to recognize the horses, but his search comes up fruitless and he gives up. Innus nickers loudly as Arthur limps past the other horses. The Nokota is star-white, almost glowing in the darkness. Arthur bee-lines to him, instantly reaching for the horse, who reacts quickly, poking his head out of its stall, bumping his head against Arthur's shoulder. Innus snorts, following it by a high-pitched neigh as Arthur threads his fingers in his mane. After a moment, Arthur backs away, commanding the horse to step back in gentle whispers and weak pushes. Innus complies, and Arthur fiddles with the stall's door, opening it and ushering for the Nokota to step out. Charles throws a rope he'd found around Innus' neck, using it as a makeshift reign and leading him towards a few unused saddles that are laid in the open. Arthur skims a hand over Innus' side as Charles moves past, moving towards the other horses in search of Fortuna. 

Innus raises a bit of a fuss during the saddling, often pushing his head against Charles's chest, moving away as he tries to buckle him in and make sure he isn't in pain. Innus shakes his head as Charles tries to fit a headstall on him, almost bites off his finger as he attaches the bit. But it gets done, and when Charles turns, he finds Fortuna waiting dutifully for him beside another saddle while Arthur examines the rest of the horses. Fortuna doesn't give much of a fight, the thoroughbred docile as Charles fits the saddle and tack. 

"Arthur," Charles whispers, and Arthur looks away from the Golden Turkoman he's been patting, "I think we're set, lets head out?" 

"The others aren't back yet," Arthur mumbles, head dropping to the stall door. The Turkoman whines, huffing when Arthur's hand drops from its jaw and gently lowering its head over Arthur's. Charles can't help but smile, Arthur smiling too as he reaches above his head, pushing the horse's head off gently and raising his head again, "Thanks, boy," He coos, and the horse's eyes shut in contentment.

"You want to wait?" Charles asks, and Arthur takes in a deep breath. He's visibly worried, sweaty forehead crinkled as his eyebrows knit together and if he wasn't hurt, Charles is sure Arthur would be pacing around. But he leans against the stall instead, hand thoughtlessly playing with the Golden Turkoman's mane. It would pester him till the others arrive, and Arthur by nature is a worrying person, close to Hosea. "I'll saddle the other horses, then we'll leave," he says after a moment and Arthur relaxes, the faraway look in his eyes fading.

"I'll get them out for you, the Standardbred over there is kinda skittish, don't touch her nose," he warns, opening the stall for the Turkoman to exit. 

A few minutes later, two saddled horses and Charles slowly getting frustrated with the constantly moving Arabian, the stable door opens, and Charles is quick to draw his borrowed pistol. Arthur follows his lead, abandoning the Mustang he'd been trying to calm down. Innus shifts closer to Arthur, circling around him protectively as Charles moves closer. 

Close enough to see outside, he finds himself shoved backwards, hands grabbing him by his shirt and gun pressed against his neck. He's rendered useless for a moment, forgetting his head injury and getting surprised by the sudden dizziness that clouded his brain. Thankfully, whoever grabbed him drops him after a moment, "Charles? Is that you?"

"Javier?" Arthur calls in a whisper, and Charles blinks up at the man above him, indeed Javier. Air cleared of danger, Javier helps Charles to his feet with an apologetic laugh and a pat over his shoulder. 

"I see you've worked the horses," Javier muses, eyes darting around Arthur, "You okay, manito?" 

"I'll live," Arthur replies offhandedly, returning to the Mustang as Javier wonders around the crowding horses. Charles had successfully saddled and bridled, two horses, aside from Arthur's two horses. Javier lent a helping hand, searching the stable for the saddles, eventually finding the storage and moving a few saddles up front to where Arthur and Charles are working. Lenny and John eventually join them, and unexpectedly Arthur hugs them, then immediately after sends them to help Charles and Javier.

Bill stumbles in, and the group greets him, silently worrying about the missing leaders. After enough horses are saddled, and the group has each chosen their steeds, they wait. Micah doesn't return, neither Dutch nor Hosea. John keeps glancing out the windows, Arthur doesn't let himself rest, gritting his teeth through his visible pain and checking the horses over and over, making sure the tack isn't too tight, the bits aren't ill-fitted. Charles would feel offended if his worry weren't so apparent. He knew Arthur trusted him with the horses, hell, Charles is one of the few that are allowed to touch Luna back at camp. Arthur had previously told him he trusts him with his life, and Charles wasn't inclined to doubt that Arthur had meant it. 

"We should move," Charles is the first to say, and they pause a moment, Bill looking away from the Halfbred that had warmed up to him almost instantly, Javier stopped brushing the dark bay Andalusian he'd chosen. 

"Shouldn't we-" Lenny starts but stops mid-sentence when the stable doors open again, Dutch sliding in, both pistols in hand, relaxing almost instantly and motioning for Hosea. 

"Dutch!" John greets, finally moving from the windows. Hosea greets those who greet him, taking a stand beside Arthur who swatted away Hosea's concerned hands, insisting that he's fine, but leans against the older man anyway. The tired lines deepen across Arthurs relatively young face, worried creases easing, but their disappearance makes the paleness of his skin stand out. It reminds him that they need to move, and quick because he'd forgotten Arthur is a professional actor when it comes to acting okay. He'd been brave-facing the entire ordeal, saving Charles and taming the horses, refusing to cause more worry or become a burden. 

"You're all here?" Dutch asks, eyes scanning the crowding men, all reading their horses to go. 

"Micah," Bill points out and Hosea purses his lips, expression going dark as Dutch deflates a bit.

"Micah's dead," Dutch announces, and the mood shifts slightly. Micah wasn't the most popular between the gang, but he'd been one of them nonetheless, and his death holds some meaning between them. Another one of the crooked little family lost at the hands of a botched job. He's probably the body the officers were moving, personally, Charles won't lose much sleep over him, he'd given him enough of a hard time that most of the time he'd wished he would up and leave the gang. Javier looks disappointed, Bill frowning at the news. 

Arthur looks surprisingly sad.

Which was possibly the last thing Charles would expect. Arthur never was shy on voicing his disapproval about Micah and his habits, steadily increasing as they jumped from place to place and Micah got more and more reckless. Once Arthur came back drenched in water after a stagecoach job with Micah, ranted for ten minutes to Dutch about him, only to be told that people make mistakes every once in a while. Not to mention after Sean's death, Arthur had gone silent for a few days before going off on Micah and Bill, shouting like Charles hadn't seen before. Then, there was that one time Micah made fun of Kieran's death, and Arthur needed to be physically removed from the vicinity so Micah wouldn't be put out of commission. He didn't necessarily think Arthur would be  _happy_ about the news of Micah's death, but certainly not  _sad_ , definitely didn't think he'd see the anger that flashed in his eyes.

"We need to leave, then," Charles repeats, and Dutch nods, eyes falling on the black Arabian that had warmed up to Lenny. Charles expected Dutch to ask for it, but surprisingly, the leader went to the three remaining horses, choosing Fortuna of all. 

When everyone is on a horse, Lenny on the Arabian, Charles on Innus, John on the Turkoman (though Charles suspects Arthur would take him back when they're at camp), Hosea, and Arthur on the bitey Standardbred, Dutch on Fortuna, Bill and Javier on their respective horses, the move to the side exit of the stable. Bill pushes the door open, and there's a moment where they're unsure whether to try and sneak or to rush, before Dutch's voice comes through, deciding for them.

"Together,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter changed the plot at least 3 times, here are the outcomes I wrote then changed:  
> 1-By chance, Bill and Javier unite with Charles and Arthur on the train and they ride it to the stable, using it as a distraction for the law to follow as they grab the horses.  
> 2- Arthur gets spotted, law surrounds them and they basically fight their way out of the city on foot.  
> 3- Charles gets shot and has to get saved by John and Lenny while Arthur hides on his own, both Charles and Arthur think each other are dead.  
> 4- In John's POV, he makes it to the stable and finds Bill, Lenny, and Javier, then when they sneak inside and get the horses, Dutch and Hosea arrive. Then the whole commotion starts and they have to escape or die altogether, leaving a horse behind in case they're not dead.
> 
> Anyway, you can find me on: 
> 
> Amino as 'Fenton Aka TB boy' where I'm most active  
> or  
> Tumblr as rapidbullsh though I don't post, I more usually text and reblog on it.
> 
> I also post rdr as vine on Youtube under the account SC.


	7. We'll carry all the weights to bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter but!! here!! after an entire month! I'm sorry!

There's a moment of hesitancy, where the breath stills between the group and John can't help but worriedly glance out into the darkness, there is a shift between them, almost like the click of a hammer. It lasts utmost of two seconds, the feeling that had radiated washing away into their usual determined and stubborn air, and then, with uncanny synchronization, they all spurred their horses and charge outside. It throws all their discretion out the window, all that sneaking around ending, and partly, John is thankful because he's itching with anxiety and twitchy with suppressed energy. Their sneaking had taken a turn for the worst, what with Micha and all, but what John's truly worried about is how pale Arthur had looked in the saddle. 

It's almost a given that gunfire follows them, and the first few were slow with surprise, eight horses running and zigzagging through the railway does that to some. But as the guards slowly crowded and noticed the gang and their escape attempt, the gunfire rung closer. Over the years, they had gotten used to a certain formation. It was the exact same one they used every time they needed to shoot their way out of something.

Their usual formation was pretty simple if John would be asked. Arthur and him at the back for cover fire, Javier and Dutch upfront with their guns ready and whichever in the middle was to continue riding. Usually, the middle-men would be carrying gold, money, or some type of sought-after item. And in the cases where it  _wasn't_ and they were running for their lives, it doesn't change, and John isn't too happy to say that he got used to throwing commands back and forth between him and Arthur. Mostly Arthur at him, but who's here to say?

He still takes out his pistol and fires, and reality sends a shiver down his spine when he turns to make sure Arthur is covering his left and instead catches sight of him half dead in a saddle with Hosea wrapping an arm around his middle. A bullet makes his horse skid to the side, and he almost loses control of it before he tugs on the reigns and steers them closer to where Bill is shooting blindly. He doesn't really know where they're heading, only that they're following Charles and Dutch as they lead them to safety. He knows three exits out of Saint-Denis, but he hadn't hung around the city too much, and neither had Dutch if he would be honest.

He personally doesn't like the city after the debacle with Angelo Bronte and whatnot, didn't like it even when he entered it the first time, but that was for completely other reasons. He had seen once that Arthur had drawn the city's outline in his journal, and he would bet his highest dollar that Arthur knows every bone and brick in the city. He had heard of the chases he lead and escapes he pulled, and again, feels completely thrown off by the fact that he doesn't have him to fall back onto when things go to shit, as with what's going on right this moment. Hosea's horse snorts behind him, and John briefly hears him swear before there's a shout for help.

Before John could even turn around, Lenny shoots past, shouting for him to cover them as he stops his horse beside Hosea's; which was high stepping and refusing to continue running. John watches as a bullet misses Hosea by a hair, and Lenny shoots the culprit, before wrapping his arms around Arthur and pulling him down from the agitated horse. John shoots whoever comes into his view, and there's a pretty gruesome pile of bodies starting to grow; the others have proceeded without them, probably unaware of the setback. Another bullet whizzed by, and Lenny staggers and falls, Arthur falling on top of him and rolling to the ground.

There's a sickening moment where it looks like both of them are dead, but then Arthur coughs harshly and starts to push himself onto his forearms and Lenny groans and quickly pulls himself to his feet. "Kid!" John shouts, and Lenny waves him off, helping Arthur to his feet as Hosea grabs one of his pistols and starts shooting. 

"Take him on your horse!" Lenny shouts, and John complies by steering the horse closer, grabbing Arthur's arms and pulling him up on the Turkoman's flank. He would prefer Arthur be in front of him, where he could catch him if he falls; but there's no time. After Arthur manages wraps himself around John, and his hold is firm enough, Lenny moves to his own horse, the Arabian loyally waiting as it's new rider mounts it again, Hosea slinging himself behind him.

They kick off again, and Arthur's hold tightens as they surge backward with the momentum. Good, that means he's still awake. John doesn't slow, and as they ride through the mud beside the train track, the Turkoman skidding away from snapping turtles and snakes, the gunshots start to become more and more distant. They probably killed half the force, and by the time reinforcements come, they would be far away. 

He doesn't see any trail of the rest, but that doesn't deter him. The further they are, the safer they are. Lenny is only a few paces in front of him, and John follows his pace as the mud and swamps turn into a road. For the first time, he actually pays attention to where they are. Caliga hall is on their left, and they're headed towards Shady Belle. They slow down when their horses start to fight against their commands, and by that point, John is panting from pure relief. There are no horsemen behind them, no gunfire.

They veer into the trees, letting the horses calm down for a moment. He doesn't have anything on him to feed the Turkoman, not even an oatcake, the most he can do is let it walk into a trot instead of running. Hosea kept glancing behind them, eyebrows still drawn in worry, but slowly, his glances turn less and less, and by the time they're closing in on Shady Belle, his shoulders are a tad bit more relaxed.

Shady Belle looks daunting in the night, must be near midnight or later by now. It looks empty, with the horses missing and Pearson's station and wagon no longer the first thing to greet them, just the murky water fountain and the abandoned crates signaling that life had been here at some point. 

"The prints look fresh," Hosea says, and John snaps his eyes from the empty space to where Hosea is leaning off the Arabian, inspecting the ground, "They must've passed through here," He hums thoughtfully, "I'll go check inside, John, you stay with Arthur, Lenny, take a look at the rest of the property." He directs them, pausing when he takes a look at Arthur. Hosea doesn't go inside right away, instead, he walks till he's beside the muddied Turkoman, placing a gentle hand on Arthur's thigh.

It's a subtle shift, but with their proximity, John feels as Arthur's head moves very slightly from where it was resting between his shoulder blades. "I'm still here, don't look so worried," Arthur says, but his voice his barely above a whisper, rapidly turning weaker and weaker as the night goes on. John tries to be as still as possible, leaving Arthur to mold himself comfortably against him, if that's possible. 

"We're almost home, Arthur," Hosea says instead, and there's silence, where both Arthur and John doubt silently, "I-I don't quite know where it is right now, but whatever happens, we'll get you the help you need," He assures, and Arthur's head lifts from John's back for a second, before it rests again.

"I know, Pa," Arthur mumbles, and John's heart stutters for a second, and he's sure, by Hosea's expression, his did too. Calling Dutch and Hosea Pa used to be the usual, John did it, Arthur did it, for a brief time, Tilly did too. But as they grew older, as the jokes became more and more harsh, they all stopped, Arthur being the first; since he got it the worst. He hadn't heard Arthur call someone Pa, or any familial name for that matter, in some ten years, or longer, probably. 

"Hang in there," Hosea says after a moment before he takes a step back and hurries into the mansion. 

It doesn't take very long for Lenny to return, silently pulling beside John as they wait for Hosea to return. He was staring down onto a paper, eyes racing back and forth before he blinks, dropping his hands and looking between John and Lenny.

"I think they're in Lakay," He announces, handing John the note,

_Dear Uncle Tacitus,_

_I've heard about your recent endeavors, and how you've been dealing with its misgivings. What a sly dog, you are, managing on your own in such a terrible time.  I do hope you and your cousins found a better place to stay, I've been told about the restless neighborhood you've been staying in. And d on't you worry now, dear young Tabatha is still as healthy as ever, as much as the circumstances would suggest otherwise. We have been through hardships of our own, as our establishment had recently gotten infested, and we were forced to move while we drove out the intruders. If you were to visit us, you may find us at our relative's house in Lakay, just north of Saint-Denis. It's buggy and muggy, but it'll do until we find a solution to our problems_. 

_We await your return anxiously,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Cathrine._

"You think the others headed there?" John asks, passing the letter to Lenny as Hosea pulls himself on the back of his horse. 

"I hope so," Hosea replies curtly as Lenny stuffs the letter into his pocket, and silently, they lead their horses out of Shady Belle.

 

By the time they arrive at Lakay, after taking the long way around to be extra safe, dawn was already breaking, and Arthur had fallen asleep. Tiredness had sunk into John's bones, and he longs for his bedroll, longs to see Abigail and Jack and feel normal. Or as normal as they can be. The day had been very, very long, and he can't wait to fall asleep, forget about what had happened today. 

The feeling seems to be echoed by the other men. Hosea looks much older than he is, and Lenny is staring at the road ahead with tired eyes. By god, he can't even imagine how Arthur is feeling, and would rather not know. All he hopes is that the damage is reversible and that today doesn't take anyone else with it. 

There's only one shack that stands out, mostly because every other cabin is dark, and this one is lit with light; and a shadowy figure is sitting outside, a table in front of him. Something in John's heart unwinds as Pearson comes into view, and his brain threatens to shut down as Abigail and Sadie appear in his vision. He almost shouts for them but realizes very quickly that that's pretty stupid, and a dead giveaway. Instead, he shifts in the saddle and waits for them to spot him.

Pearson is the first to look up at the sound of hoofbeats, and his face brightens as he calls for the others. "Sadie, Abigail, they're back!" He says, and John smiles as Abigails abandons whatever was in her hands, grasping her skirt and running towards where they're coming from. John slides down the saddle quickly, freezing when Arthur flinches and grabs onto the edge of the saddle, his balance shifting as he tries to sit up on his own. John moves to help, but Lenny taps his shoulder and motions for him to go to Abigail.

He whispers his thanks, before turning to her and wrapping his arms around her. He had been worried, sorely, about what had happened to her. But that was to be forgotten now, she was healthy, she was safe and she is squeezing the life out of him right this moment. Sadie and Pearson were helping Lenny move Arthur, and the man looked more dead than alive, the shadows of his face deepening from the scarce lighting. Abigail places a kiss on his cheek before she hurries behind the crowd, almost definitely ready to pour herself into helping Arthur. 

When John follows into the shack, he finds a heartwarming sight, with Javier pouring a drink for Lenny; Dutch and Hosea hugging intimately, more than he had seen ever seen since the Blackwater mess. Charles was balancing a bucket and a few other medical supplies as Grimshaw directs Pearson and Bill while they're setting Arthur down on a bed. The shack is warm and homey, and every muscle in his body relaxes as Abigail comes by his side again, linking her arm with his and leaning on his shoulder.

"I was worried about you," John admits, and he can  _feel_ Abigail smile against him, her hold tightening as she sighs contently.

"I was too," She replies, voice soft as she straightens, "you should sleep, the day must have been hard on you," John agrees wholeheartedly, and as she leads him to where Strauss is snoozing, Cain tucked in the corner beside the girls, who were also asleep. _Finally_ , he thinks,  _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, quick, kinda sweet I guess? This is the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue but it might be delayed because I'm traveling to Thailand. But anyway, this story has been on for so long, and oddly enough, it's one of the shortest (chapter number wise) ones I have.
> 
> Thank you, for the support and comments and kudos. You're all awesome.


	8. Home. Finally.

It’s all a game of luck, if Dutch had to say. Life is only a gamble, and God is shuffling the cards blind, some flying off and some rearranging. It’s never a straight forward thing, all you can do is cross your fingers and get ready for the ride.

  
Arthur’s wound had festered, that wasn’t a gamble, it was a very prone possibility. They had to reopen it too, which brought more grief onto the gang. It’s been a week now, holed up in that tiny shack, surrounded by mud and muck and bugs alike. 

  
They had the money, the bought their time, they only need to wait for Arthur to return to the waking world. His fever had been spiking at night, and Hosea had barely started collecting his cool before Arthur’s temperature skyrocketed, to the point that the briefly contemplated riding out towards the river just to cool him down in it.

  
But now… now it’s getting better. Slowly, achingly slow, Arthur’s infection stops spreading, the color slowly returns to his cheeks, and after almost a week and a half, Arthur’s eyes blink up at him. Dutch almost weeps at the sight of them, they’re pale, clouded by fever. But he’s awake, and he’s awake enough to try and fight his way into a sitting position.

  
Hosea urges him enough to rest, forces warm stew down his throat, and gives him some herbal tea to sip on. And quickly, within the hour, Arthur was drifting off again. “Progress,” Hosea whispers to himself, as Dutch is carefully picking the cup out of Arthur’s hand. Hosea presses a hand to Arthur’s forehead, a small smile playing at his lips. He looks up at Dutch, and the hope and happiness radiating in his eyes are enough to set Dutch’s heart aflame, “No fever,”

  
Another week, and Dutch has finally found it.   
Their slice of paradise on earth. With the money the counted, and the gold bars they sold, and the jewelry they fenced, they’ve got more than enough money to move onto their dreams.

  
And Dutch finally found it.

  
He holds the new close to his chest but a grin is unmovable from his lips as he watches their most recent camp get set up. Their little spot in the swamps had gotten too suffocating, and Charles had found a new, quiet place to lay low in.

  
Hosea is watching from the sidelines as well, in the opposite side of camp. He catches Dutch’s gaze, and Dutch B-lines to him, his grin widening as the brochure burns in his pocket. He can feel the giddiness of the prospect of a new life fill his chest as he pulls Hosea aside, automatically pressing a gentle kiss to his temple as they weave through the trees.

  
“happy, much?” Hosea smiles, and Dutch holds his hand in his, a small chuckle escaping him.

  
“I’ve found it, Hosea,” Dutch says, looking around the plush trees.

  
“Found what?” Hosea asks, eyes weary as they scan his face. Dutch doesn’t waver, stepping closer to Hosea.

  
“I’ve found our new home,” he brandishes the brochure, the printed ink stark against the white paper. New, fresh, a possible out for them all.

  
“Oh?” Hosea hums, unraveling the paper and reading it, eyes scanning the lines, the drawings, the details printed. Slowly, as Dutch rocks on his heels, Hosea looks up, eyes brighter, “You sure about this?” Hosea asks but his eyes are glittering in the filtering sun. A cool wind sweeps by, and Dutch leans in, pressing a meaningful kiss to Hosea’s lips.

  
“I’m sure, we can go see the property soon,” he whispers, smiling when he feels Hosea’s arms slink around his middle, pulling him into a hug. “Soon, old girl, soon we’ll be free,”  
A brief fit of laughter between them, and they sway for a moment as the happy, hopeful bubble between them starts to build up. And hopefully, it won’t ever burst.

“You know, old man,” Arthur groans, stiffly letting John guide him towards the table, “I never thought I’d live to see this day,” He sighs, and Hosea clasps his shoulder with a laugh.

  
“Well, dear boy, I can say the same thing,” Hosea places the stew bowl underneath his nose. The camp had settled, and the property had been viewed, and the down-payment had been paid. All that’s left is to build the ranch, build the houses.

  
There’s a cheery mood going around, infectious enough that even though Arthur still hadn’t fully healed, he was in a good mood. The news had brought festivities all around, and Arthur joining had lifted the spirits higher and higher.

  
And it was all good, in Hosea’s frank opinion. He had been surprised. Surprised by the fact that Dutch even embraced the idea of settling down, embraced the idea of change for once. His ideologies had never wavered in the 20 years he has known him, but now… now Hosea watches as Dutch plans out the housing. Setting down the names in separate rooms.

  
Rooms in their house to be.

  
On their ranch…

  
It’s still too surreal, Hosea is convinced he’s been dreaming for the past two weeks. The warm hand squeezing his arm as he sits by the Campfire makes him believe, though. And for the first time in a good while, Hosea feels satisfied. Happy, absolutely happy… that’s what he is.  
\--

  
The brink of fall under their feet, Arthur takes one final long look at the empty space before him. They’re all packed up, Dutch and John already leading the first wagon to the station. “Strange, isn’t it?” Charles says from behind, footsteps unheard as he comes to stand beside Arthur.

  
“Strange,” Arthur parrots, “this is the last camp,”

  
“that bank job was the last heist,” Charles notes, “this is… the first time in almost two decades that…” his voice trails off, a soft sigh replacing words.

  
“We’ll have a home, a ranch… we’ll have our lives,” It sends a spike to his chest, one that must’ve shown on his face because Charles asks.

  
“Will you miss it?”

  
“Being an Outlaw?” Arthur huffs, “sure won’t miss the bullets and the fights. But the freedom… well… I guess I’ll still have that,” he shakes his head, “guess it’s just… odd, thinking that we finally made it. Twenty years. We finally made it”

  
“Yeah,” Charles agrees, “you made it”

-

  
The train ride is long and achy, twelve long hours spent traveling far, far away from all the messes they had behind them. From Blackwater to Saint Denis. Everything.

They’re leaving the last traces of their deeds, every bullet casing they popped, every body they dropped.

  
Every injury, argument, crime.

  
All.

  
Even though his stomach hurts from the prolonged sit, Arthur’s shoulders slowly lighten. Burdens burning off with every mountain they pass and every pasture change they see.

  
The wagons were ready for them when they arrived, so kindly by a local Hosea befriended while checking out the estate. A bunch of them, a good portion, was tasked to wait and help transfer their belongings, and horses. The others, the select few including Arthur, got to see the ranch first.

  
Tall, wide and freshly painted, it looked like a model they’d see in a brochure. Or a rich man’s business. Nothing like he imagined. Nothing that he imagined would belong to them.

  
Then again, Dutch was always one for the fancier things in life.

  
The pale wooden carvings sprawling from the horse stable was an indicator of such. The pale red rims of the dark ebony barn too, and the sprawl of houses. Enough to carry the entire gang, or well…

  
Are they a gang anymore?

  
“in spirits,” Hosea answered half heartedly, “but I guess we’re more of a family now, a real one”

  
That was enough. As Arthur walked through the houses, got to see his first ever room, with the large window that looked past the fence and onto the wooden area behind. Where flowers grew wild and untouched, and a few deer passed here and then.

  
“Knew you’d like it,” Arthur only smiles at Hosea, who’s eyes are scanning the ceilings, “load of wildlife around here too, ‘S why I liked it so much. Deer, Moose, Elk, a good bunch of them,”

  
Arthur’s chest is far too full to speak, the few pictures he had emptied on the bedside table, beside the raw bed frame, they’re the first belongings to be put down. The first mark of their life on this ranch. Here. Together.

  
No fights, no crimes. No law hunting them down, at least hopefully for a while.

“It’s perfect,” it’s _more_ than perfect. Everything is so saturated with life, in a way that doesn’t bother Arthur, makes him feel warm even. Hosea just gives a crooked smile, finally some of his worry melting away, for the first time in more than a decade.

  
“It’s home now,” He says, and the hearing it from Hosea is even more hard hitting. A boost in his chest that makes his heart pump faster. Because _yes_.

Yes this is home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so abhorrently long to write. I've had a seriously bad record at updating but this is just. Phew. Waaaay too bad.
> 
> Anyway, here's a happy and sweet ending! The boys deserved it


End file.
